


The Winchesters' Rules For Hunting

by AlElizabeth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-18 03:29:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 51,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4690460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlElizabeth/pseuds/AlElizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of one-shots based based on ridiculous or humorous "rules" for hunting featuring the Winchesters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Rule Number 1: Don't Hunt on an Empty Stomach

Dean swore silently as his stomach let out a long whine loud enough for Sam to peer over at him from his position behind a gravestone several yards away.

I knew I should have grabbed something to eat, Dean thought regrettably and squinted into the darkness, trying to catch sight of the Black Dog he and Sam were currently hunting.

Dean shifted his position slightly, trying to get comfortable. He sat crouched behind a crumbling limestone grave marker, his left shoulder pressed against the cold stone, his socks soaked through with dew.

Neither he nor Sam had flashlights, although the cemetery was large, with winding paths that cut past the numerous graves, a bloated, yellow moon shed enough light to see by. Besides, trying to hold a flashlight and shoot a charging Black Dog didn't work too well.

Dean frowned again when his stomach growled a second time, now more insistent.

Dean sighed quietly and wondered if Sam had any of those stupid energy bars he was addicted to. Maybe he could get one from his brother while they waited for the monster to show up.

A third growl broke the tranquil quiet of the graveyard, this one louder than the ones previous and somehow more threatening.

This one hadn't come from Dean's stomach, either.

Suddenly on high alert, the older Winchester scanned the grass ahead of him.

The trouble with Black Dogs was that they were damn hard to spot at night, their jet-black fur and silvery eyes blending in quickly with the shadows and moonbeams.

Suddenly, Dean caught sight of movement from the corner of his eye and raised himself up so that he could shoot his gun from over the top of the gravestone while using it for protection as well.

The bullet missed the dog and ricocheted off a grave, burying harmlessly in the grass.

A few yards away, Sam was standing behind his own gravestone, his own weapon at the ready.

"Damn," Dean swore as he lost sight of the monster again.

The hunter focused on every splash of shadow cast by the gravestones and trees, certain the Black Dog was using them to hide and inch closer towards him and his brother.

C'mon, c'mon you bastard, Dean thought, grinding his teeth, show yourself.

Dean groaned inwardly as his stomach whined and he caught his brother's eye, Sam frowning at him in irritation.

Dean opened his mouth, about to remind Sam that he was the one who had insisted they head to the cemetery as soon as dusk approached, skipping dinner, when a streak of darkness tore itself away from the shadow beneath a large blue spruce and hit his sibling.

"Gah!" Sam shouted in surprise and pain, falling over backwards.

"Sam!" Dean called and left his position, running towards his brother.

"Ahhhh!" Sam cried out in pain and Dean caught sight of a splash of white among the black-furred creature pinning his brother to the cemetery floor.

As he ran, the older Winchester raised his gun and struggled to aim it at the Black Dog, hesitating for fear of hitting his sibling instead.

"DEAN!" Sam cried out and that steeled the hunter's nerves.

Pointing the gun at the writhing black mass as best he could, Dean squeezed off a shot.

The yelp of pain told Dean he hadn't missed his target. His fired again and the squeal of agony was abruptly cut off.

Dean skidded to a halt beside his brother, dropping to his knees and shoved the dead Black Dog off Sam's chest.

His sibling was laying on his back, his face pale and beaded with sweat, his right arm against his chest, the sleeve darkening with blood.

Wordlessly, Dean helped Sam up into a sitting position and pulled back his brother's shirtsleeve to assess the damage.

"W-Would have got my chest b-but I got my arm up i-in time," Sam explained, breathing heavily through the pain.

"It's gonna need stitches," Dean informed him, cringing at the deep gashes in his brother's arm.

"Why did it go after me anyway?" Sam asked as he stood shakily, Dean retrieving his fallen gun for him.

"Your stomach was growling loudly enough to wake the dead," Sam commented and Dean snorted.

"I guess this guy was just in the mood for a Sam-wich tonight," Dean joked and poked the dead dog with the toe of his boot.

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's joke, grateful that even though he had missed dinner; Dean was still as quick as ever and had killed the Black Dog before it did any real damage.

"Let's light this puppy up and then get something to eat," Dean said, "I'm starving."


	2. Chapter 2

Rule Number 2: Never go on a hunt when you're angry

Sam trudged along behind his father and brother, a sour expression on his face.

He shouldn't even be here. It was a routine salt n' burn, nothing that required all three of them to be present.

But John had insisted Sam needed more practice.

So here he was, shotgun full of rock salt in one hand and flashlight in the other, wanting nothing more than to go back to the motel and finish his English essay that was due at the end of the week.

Sam sighed audibly. Was he so weird for wanting to do his homework instead of dispatching vengeful spirits?

His father thought so.

"Can you cut the bitchiness out for an hour or so Sam? I can hear you fuming from all the way over here."

Dean's hissed question startled Sam and he glanced quickly ahead but John hadn't turned around; he hadn't heard Dean speak.

Sam tightened his grip on his gun and nodded sharply, reminding himself that he really should be keeping an eye out for the ghost and not ruminating on a situation he couldn't change now.

When John stopped suddenly, Sam narrowly avoided walking right into him.

Collecting himself, Sam listened with as much interest as he could muster as his father told them that they should separate and search the warehouse that way.

Dean, as usual, was the first to object- not because he was trying to argue with John's plan, he probably thought it was fantastic, but out of concern for his sibling.

"Are you sure? Maybe Sammy and I should stick together."

John's dark brown eyes searched his younger son's face for a moment.

Sam didn't really want to hear Dean cuss at him for being in a mood so he told his father that he didn't mind being on his own.

"For," he finished, somewhat weakly, "You know… Practice."

John nodded and parted ways with his sons. Before Sam could head off in the opposite direction, Dean caught his elbow.

"Keep your head in the game, Sam," he reminded, giving him a wary look.

Sam, irritated even more with his brother's need to act like this was his first hunt, pulled his arm from Dean's grip and snapped at him.

"I know what I'm doing, Dean!"

With that, the teen stormed off through the empty warehouse, in search of the ghost he'd rather not be looking for.

W

Sam grumbled as he walked, unable to shake his bad mood, twirling his flashlight in his hand to cast curving light across the walls and floor.

Why did he even have to be here? Didn't he already know how to get rid of ghosts? This wasn't his first hunt for Pete's Sake!

As he reached the far end of the main floor of the warehouse, Sam found himself standing in front of a bank of elevators.

Deciding that he should search the top floors, he reached out and pressed the button to call the lift.

The old, dented doors opened with a loud groan and Sam stepped forward into the elevator shaft… and into open air.

He didn't even have time to cry out as he fell, arms flailing frantically for purchase and by some miracle of reflexes, he managed to grab the edge of the warehouse floor where it stopped and the elevator floor should have began.

The breath was knocked from Sam as he hit the side of the elevator shaft bodily, his cry for help escaping in a wheeze no one was sure to hear.

Sam struggled to pull himself up but he wasn't able to, his hands barely holding onto the smooth concrete floor.

"H-help," he croaked, terrified.

He couldn't hold on much longer. He was going to fall. Would his brother and Dad even be able to find him?

Tears squeezed out from Sam's eyes as his hands slipped, causing him to descend an inch or so. Already his fingers were cramping and his arms were screaming in pain from the effort of holding his weight.

"D-Dean," Sam breathed, unable to shout, "H-Help."

The teen slipped again, his sweaty hands moving closer and closer to the edge.

Clenching his eyes shut, Sam tried one more time to heave himself back up without success.

Eyes still closed, he cried out as he lost his grip on the edge of the warehouse floor and for one terrifying moment seemed to hover in mid-air before falling.

Sam gasped as an ice-cold hand grabbed his wrist roughly, halting his plummet down the elevator shaft.

With preternatural strength, the teen was pulled up out of the elevator shaft and deposited on the floor in front of it.

Sam took a moment to gather himself- his heart beating so fast that if felt as though it would explode- and looked up at his savior.

It wasn't Dean or John.

Instead it was a Hispanic man in his early twenties, wearing stained blue work coveralls. The man peered down at Sam with large, dark eyes for a moment and that was when the teen realized that with a sickening jolt that the left side of his rescuer's head was caved in.

Sam was staring at the ghost.

The teen opened his mouth to speak but before he could get a word out the spirit flickered out of existence.

"Sam!"

The teen turned towards the sound of his name and saw his brother and father running towards him.

"Are you alright? Did it hurt you? Why didn't you shoot it?"

Sam remained silent as his brother brought him to his feet; both his father and Dean had looks of real concern on their faces.

"It… He saved me."

"What?" John asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"I… I fell down the elevator shaft," Sam paused and gestured behind himself to the open lift doors, "And he grabbed my wrist… pulled me back up."

Dean's eyes widened in disbelief.

"I… wasn't paying attention and walked right into the shaft," Sam explained, embarrassment making his cheeks burn.

"Sam-" John began but Dean interrupted.

"The… the ghost," he said, licking his lips, "Didn't you say it was some Mexican kid who died on the job? We thought it was causing accidents… People falling from the machinery or the catwalks?"

John nodded, "Yeah, witnesses reported seeing his ghost around the time of the accidents."

Dean felt a smile begin to widen his mouth, "Maybe he wasn't killing people. Maybe he was trying to save them, like he saved Sammy."

John stared at both of his sons, shocked by the revelation.

"Are you going to get rid of him?" Sam asked.

Surprisingly, John sighed and shook his head, "No, Sam, just this once, I don't think this ghost needs to be taking care of."

He seems to be taking care of people here just fine, the unspoken words followed the Winchesters as they made their way out of the warehouse and back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave an idea for a rule if you have one.


	3. Chapter 3

Rule Number 3: Remind Sam to cut his hair when it gests too long

Sam trudged through the thick-growth forest behind his father and brother. The fourteen-year old walked with his head bowed, watching the ground so he wouldn't trip over a tree root or exposed rock.

"Hurry up, Sammy," Dean's voice spoke suddenly from ahead of the boy and he looked up, brushing his long bangs away from his eyes.

From over Dean's shoulder, the ninth-grader caught sight of their father's disapproving glare. Sam bristled and hunched his shoulders, wondering what the hell was pissing John off now. Recently everything about Sam seemed to annoy John, from the fact that he actually did his homework to the way he talked.

Sam didn't know why his Dad had suddenly decided to find fault with everything about him. He wasn't intentionally trying to press his father's buttons; it was John who was changing, not him.

Sighing, the fourteen-year old followed along behind his brother and father obediently, clutching his pistol filled with silver bullets tightly in one hand. Although he had a flashlight it was turned off and shoved into the pocket of his jacket, a precaution against being targeted by their target.

It wasn't even dark yet, the sun only beginning to set but John had insisted on heading into the woods before night fell so that they would be in position for when the werewolf they were hunting became active.

After a couple of hundred or so feet, John halted and turned to his sons.

"Dean, you take Sam and head to the east," the eldest Winchester instructed, "Keep your brother close and the Walkie-Talkie at hand."

Dean nodded and promised he would follow his Dad's orders.

John turned his dark eyes on his youngest son.

"You listen to what Dean tells you," he ordered Sam as though the fourteen-year old was petulant enough to disregard anything his older brother told him to do.

The ninth-grader nodded, to avoid speaking and sounding sarcastic or something and watched as their father stalked off towards the west.

Dean gave Sam a smile and took out Walkie-Talkie, turning it on to hear a faint static sound.

"C'mon, let's find this bitch and kill her so we can get back," Dean announced, "'Death Wish' is on TV tonight."

Sam smiled and shook his head. He walked along beside Dean as his brother began moving again, heading in the opposite direction their father had taken.

W

"M-Maybe Dad's got it already?" Sam asked, trying to keep from panting and failing.

Dean kept up a brisk pace and with longer legs then his brother, wasn't tiring in the least.

Sam on the other hand, needed a rest, if only for a moment.

The fourteen-year old saw Dean's head shake in the darkness, "He'd have called us."

Sam sighed, knowing Dean was right.

It just seemed as though they had been walking for hours with no sign of the werewolf at all. Maybe it was no longer in the forest, but had moved to the town as it had been doing for the past two months, feeding at night during the full moon before slipping into the shadows of the trees before the sun rose.

John had asked around town and had found out there was a woman- a hermit of sorts- who lived in the woods and had so for years. It was only recently, however, that the werewolf attacks had been happening and John guessed that sometime in the past few months the woman had been attacked by a werewolf herself and now was a victim of the curse.

The only thing John hadn't been able to figure out though was whether the woman and the werewolf that had turned her were both terrorizing the city. That was why he had had his sons split up from him, something he wasn't inclined to do as a safety precaution.

Sam stumbled to a standstill behind his brother as two gunshots rang out in the darkness.

"Dad," Dean breathed and lifted the Walkie-Talkie.

"Dad? You there? Hey!" Dean spoke into the Walkie-Talkie and Sam cringed at the hint of fear in the eighteen-year old's voice.

The communication device sent out a burst of static, crackled and then John's voice spoke up, panting.

"I…got it…" he told his sons.

"Is it the chick?" Dean asked and Sam bit his lip.

John spoke but Sam didn't hear what he said because the sound of leaves rustling and branches snapping arose suddenly behind him and Dean.

The fourteen-year old barely had time to jump out of the way before a pair of dripping jaws thrust forward between the bushes and snapped shut inches from his face.

"SAM!" he heard his brother cry out in shock as he stumbled backwards, pointing his gun at the two glowing eyes following the jaws out of the bushes.

The ninth-grader squeezed off one shot before he turned and ran- it was the only thing he could do to avoid getting bitten in half- trampling through the trees blindly.

"SAM!"

He could hear Dean calling after him but he couldn't stop, he could hear the pounding of large paws coming up from behind him.

Oh God please, not like this; Sam thought desperately and cried out as he suddenly pitched forward, tumbling ass over teakettle down an embankment.

"Ah!" Sam cried out in pain as he landed, his long hair knotted in the branches of a low-hanging tree. Sam grabbed at the branch and tugged, trying to pull his hair free.

The sound of heavy footfalls shuffled above Sam, at the top of the embankment and the teen held his breath, closing his eyes fearfully.

A gunshot rang out above Sam and he instinctively tried to duck, only succeeding in tugging roughly at his scalp.

A second gunshot followed the first and the ninth-grader heard a pained whine and a loud thud of something big hitting the forest floor.

For a long moment silence reigned and then Dean's voice called out.

"Sam? Sammy? Where are you? Answer me!"

"H-here," Sam replied weakly, "Down here."

"Sam?" Dean's voice called again and Sam heard uncertain footfalls above him for a moment before Dean's flashlight beam cut through the darkness and pinned him.

"Sam! Jesus!"

The younger brother squinted against the bright light and watched as Dean slid down the low embankment.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Dean asked concernedly.

"I… I don't know," Sam admitted, if he was hurt, the fear and adrenaline had temporarily canceled out any pain he should be feeling.

Dean nodded, grim-faced and pulled out the Walkie-Talkie.

"Dad, we got the second one," he told John, "But Sam's hurt."

"How bad?" came the reply, which Sam thought seemed decidedly devoid of concern.

"Dunno," Dean answered, "I've gotta get a better look at him and I'll let you know. Meet you back at the car?"

"Fine," John replied and the Walkie-Talkie went silent.

Sam grimaced and tried to tug free of the branches, trying to hide a grimace of pain as he did so.

"What the heck did you do?" Dean asked, raising the flashlight to illuminate the tangled knot of tree branch and hair.

Sighing, Dean reached out and started pulling on Sam's tangled hair.

"Ow! Dean stop!"

"Shut up, Sammy," Dean grumbled, "How the hell did you manage this?"

Sam grumbled and unintelligible answer.

"Maybe if you didn't have long girly hair this wouldn't have happened?" Dean suggested, trying to untangle his brother's locks as carefully as possible.

Sam didn't answer. He was starting to feel a bit dizzy.

That was another thing that seemed to tick John off so much recently, Sam's long hair. The oldest Winchester simply didn't understand why his youngest son didn't cut his hair short like Dean's.

"Sam? Sammy, you with me?" Dean asked and Sam lifted his head slightly, blinking.

"Yeah," he muttered.

"You're hair's not gonna untangle," his brother informed him, "And I don't think you want me to just rip it off the tree, right?"

"Hmmm," Sam answered.

"I'm gonna have to cut a bit off," Dean told him, "It's the only way. Okay?"

Sam didn't answer but watched as Dean pulled his switchblade from his pocket and began sawing at his hair, finally freeing it from the tree branch.

"Think you can stand?" Dean asked and Sam nodded, allowing his brother to grip his elbows to help him up.

Suddenly, Sam felt his gorge rise and leaned forward, puking.

"Oh Sammy," Dean muttered, ignoring the vomit splattering his shirt, jacket and shoes as well as his little brother.

Without any prompting, Dean reached down and swept Sam's legs out from under him, picking him up in a bridal-style carry, glad that his brother was so small for his age.

Sam, ignoring the vomit on his brother's shirt, snuggled his head against Dean's chest and closed his eyes.

SPN

"DEAN! What the hell did you do to my hair?!"

The eighteen-year old peered up from the television and tried to hide the smile that tugged at his lips.

John had agreed that they could stay at the motel until Sam's recovered from his injuries- a concussion, a sprained ankle and a bruised tailbone- and was currently in town, as the Federal agent he'd been posing as, to tie up the loose ends concerning the werewolf attacks.

The bathroom door slammed open and Sam glared daggers at the eighteen-year old. Dean schooled his face into a neutral expression.

The hair on the left side of his brother's head and a small patch on the top, was significantly shorter than the rest, making it look like Sam had tried to give his hair a cut before deciding he didn't want one.

"You remember last night? You're stupid girly hair was caught in a tree branch. When you ran away from the werewolf?"

Sam stopped and stared at him for a long moment, clearly trying to recall the incident.

"I didn't tell Dad about that, by the way," Dean told him, "He just thinks the bitch knocked you to the ground."

Sam didn't respond for a long moment.

"Thanks."

Dean shrugged and smiled.

"Sorry about your hair," he apologized, knowing how much his brother's hair meant to him.

Sam, wearing a chagrinned expression, shrugged, "It'll grow back."

Dean nodded, telling himself that he needed to remember to tell Sam to get a haircut soon before it grew any longer or they'd have a real problem while hunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post a rule in a Comment if you have an idea!


	4. Chapter 4

Rule Number 4: Never leave your phone on during a hunt.

Sam Winchester stepped silently over the fallen leaves that had been scattered across the cemetery lawn by the chill October wind.

His brother walked along beside him, face set in determination, one hand holding a heavy metal flashlight, the other gripping a shotgun.

Sam, icy fingers curled around his own torch, swung the light across the grey and white gravestones, hazel eyes keen for any sign of movement.

The younger Winchester sucked in a deep breath, the air tinged with the cinnamon scent of drying leaves, acrid wood smoke, and just a hint of snow, heralding winter fast approaching.

"Where is she?" Dean asked in hushed tones, "You sure this is the right place?"

Sam didn't speak for a moment.

"Yes," he breathed, sweeping his flashlight in a long arch again to illuminate the headstones once more.

"Better be," Dean grumbled, "I'm freezing my ass-"

Sam froze and held up a hand, a signal that had his sibling silenced instantly.

Tilting his head to one side the same way he had seen Cas do when he was confused- Sam listened intently before taking a step forward.

Although the hunter was aware of the necessity of dispatching with the monster quickly, Sam shivered, a reaction not brought upon by the cold night air.

A ghoul had been digging up the fresh graves in this cemetery and Dean had insisted that it was their job to put an end to its all-night buffet. Sam agreed, of course, but he couldn't get his last encounter with ghouls out of his mind.

If he had half a mind, he could roll up the sleeves of his shirt and easily pick out the scars marring his inner arms from the ghouls that had tried to kill him, after gaining his trust and confidence by masquerading as John's third son, Adam, and his mother, Kate.

The Winchesters moved forward a few meters in complete silence, both men treading carefully to avoid crushing the fallen leaves that littered the grass, when the familiar chords of Deep Purple's 'Smoke on the Water' trilled out, making the younger hunter nearly jump out of his skin in surprise.

"Dean," Sam hissed in irritation as his brother fished his cell phone from his pocket and checked to see who was calling him.

"It's that chick from last night," Dean informed his brother, "From the bar."

Sam rolled his eyes skyward, "What was her name? Brandy?"

The younger Winchester remembered the girl well; with her long, platinum hair, big blue eyes accented by far too much makeup, a skimpy silver dress that barely concealed her ample breasts. Yes, Sam remembered how the girl- Brandy, Sherry, something like that- had been all over Dean and Dean had been just loving it.

"Champagne," the older hunter replied and Sam cringed.

Champagne? That couldn't possibly be her real name.

"Dean," Sam grumbled pointedly, "The ghoul? Put your phone away."

The older brother looked up at him for a moment, clearly torn between his duty as a hunter and his libido, and ended the call before it could go through to voicemail, shoving the phone back into his pocket.

Shaking his head in disgust, Sam pushed onward.

After five more minutes of searching and coming upon no one else in the dark graveyard, the trilling of Dean's ringtone once again interrupted the quiet.

"Dean!" Sam snapped as his brother grabbed his phone.

"Oh come off it," his brother argued, "It isn't like we've even found anything."

The younger Winchester turned away from Dean, "Catch up when you're finished talking to her."

Sam heard no reply from his brother and he guessed Dean had answered his phone. He was only a few feet away from his brother, out of the reach of his sibling's flashlight glow, when he caught sight of a dark shape moving stealthily between the gravestones ahead of him.

"Dean," Sam said but his brother didn't hear him.

"Dean!" he tried again, a little louder this time but again received no response.

Ire rising up in Sam because of Dean's decision to try and get laid instead of paying attention to the hunt, he hurried after the figure, slipping his own shotgun from where he had slung it across his shoulder.

Now not bothering to quiet his footsteps, Sam chased after the ghoul, awkwardly shoving his flashlight into his jacket pocket in order to hold the shotgun properly; he really wished Dean was with him, he could use his light.

Sam staggered to a stop, panting hard, squinting in the darkness, trying to figure out which of the shadows was the ghoul.

Suddenly the hunter was hit from the front, his attacker rushing him and he landed heavily on his back, knocking the air from his lungs.

Bright lights that had nothing to do with flashlights danced in front of Sam's eyes and he gasped as he left two strong hands wrap themselves around his throat.

"DEAN!" he called quickly before his oxygen cut off- and not a moment too soon because a second later he gasped weakly- his attacker attempting to crush his trachea.

SPN

It took a long moment before Dean realized that his brother was no longer within sight.

Ending his call with Champagne without saying goodbye, the hunter mentally kicked himself for his stupidity.

Never, NEVER let Sam go off on his own. That was a hard-learned lesson and one that Dean should have known by now.

But no, because they hadn't seen hide nor hair of their quarry, in a moment of weakness Dean had let his guard slip and let his attention stray from the only thing that was important- his brother.

Jamming his phone into his pocket, the older Winchester raised his flashlight high, scanning the surrounding graves for any sign of his sibling.

"SAMMY!" Dean shouted, not trying to be quiet and hurried forward, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Sam? Sammy? SAMMY?"

Dean's flashlight bounced as he ran, and frustrated with it, the hunter stowed it alongside his phone- the stars and full moon should offer enough light for what he needed- before continuing on, narrowly dodging gravestones in his panic to find his sibling.

"Sammy? Sammy! Sa-"

Dean's heart leaped from his chest into his throat as his shins met with an old limestone grave, reflecting the moonlight perfectly and rendered invisible in the near darkness, and he pitched forward, the shotgun going off as he fell.

SPN

Sam's hands fell away from his attacker's arms, weakened by lack of oxygen and unable to continue fighting. His vision, no longer blocked by bright flashes of light, was greying as his oxygen-deprived brain began to struggle to remain conscious.

He barely heard shotgun blast that tore through the stillness like an explosion but he greedily sucked in a lungful of air as his attacker's hands fell away from his neck.

"Sam? Sammy? Damn it, where are you?"

Through the ringing in his ears, the younger Winchester heard his brother's voice and he rolled onto his side, towards the sound, and wheezed a response.

"Here."

"Sammy!"

Sam's vision was clearing enough so that he saw Dean as his brother dropped to his knees beside him.

"Sammy," Dean murmured and Sam didn't speak again, concentrating only on getting as much air into his burning lungs as he could, hacking and coughing as he did so.

SPN

The brothers didn't speak much on the way back to their motel, Sam's throat was pretty battered, with swelling and bruises to show for the abuse, and Dean still felt guilty for nearly getting his sibling killed.

Cutting the Impala's engine and stepping from the car, Dean paused at the sidewalk in front of their motel room for his brother, watching in sympathy as Sam slowly climbed from the vehicle.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Dean asked the same question he'd asked about a half-dozen times as he and Sam had left the graveyard.

"M'fine," the younger Winchester whispered as he stepped up to the sidewalk, clearly in pain but not about to be melodramatic about it.

Dean nodded, knowing that Sam likely needed a couple of Tylenol's and a good night's sleep.

"Dean" Sam's questioning voice drew his attention to his brother.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"What did you do to your knees?"

Looking down, the older Winchester saw that the knees of his jeans were torn, the skin slick with blood. He must have bashed them pretty badly when he'd tripped over that gravestone.

"Nothing, Sammy," Dean insisted, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment. Luckily the light over the sidewalk was dim and his brother wouldn't see his discomfort.

"Let's just go to bed," Dean told Sam as he unlocked the motel room door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave an idea for a rule!


	5. Chapter 5

Rule Number 5: Don't hunt for an hour after eating.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Dean asked Sam the nth time since they had gone out on the lake.

The younger Winchester grimaced but nodded, trying to pretend as though his stomach wasn't doing flip-flops in his abdomen and cold rivulets of sweat were streaming down his face.

"How far do we have to go out?" Dean asked as he continued to row the small boat out, with no help from his brother, thank you very much.

"The last victim," Sam began, "Carl Lawrence, said he was sure he was about in the middle of the lake."

Dean rolled his eyes, "Yeah, 'cause that guy seemed so reliable."

Mr. Lawrence, currently recovering from the monster attack in the local hospital, had insisted that he had gone onto the lake to do a bit of nighttime fishing but Dean hadn't missed the deep bags beneath the man's yellowish eyes nor the burst blood vessels in his bulbous nose, a sign of chronic alcoholism.

Five people had gone missing from the lake in the past two weeks. The first victim had been a fisherman, like Mr. Lawrence, who had failed to return home after going onto the lake to catch dinner for himself and his wife. His fishing gear- basket, extra bait and hooks, an egg salad sandwich and a can of Coca-Cola were found on the shore with no sign of the man at all. Not even the fishing pole he'd been using had been recovered.

The second and third victims had been a teenage boy and girl, who had swum out into the lake together to beat the heat. They too, vanished without a trace.

Next, a little boy who had gone to the lake with his parents had disappeared while his mother and father sat only a few feet away on the lakeshore. At first it was assumed the child had drowned, but when his body didn't wash up on shore, rumors of alien abduction and monsters like Lake Champlain's Champy or the Ogopogo of the Okanagan Lake of British Columbia began to abound and roused the interest of the Winchesters.

Carl Lawrence, the final victim, and presumably lone survivor of the beast, had described a kraken-like creature with tentacles and a razor sharp beak that had pulled him right out of his boat and into the water. At first local authorities had been quick to write off his story as the ravings of the town drunk, but then once doctors had had a chance to examine him, they had discovered four saucer-sized welts on the skin of his chest that could not be explained. Mr. Lawrence was adamant that the marks had come from the monster's tentacles.

"We're here," Sam spoke up in a weak tone, startling Dean out of his thoughts.

Instantly, the older Winchester stopped paddling, resting the two oars in the brackets on either side of the boat and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

At his feet, in the bottom of the boat sat two long fishing harpoons, ready for when the beast showed itself. According to Sam, the research said that the most vulnerable parts of the monster would be its large, disk-like eyes or its mouth; if they could get past its sharp beak.

"Are you-" Dean began again but Sam cut him off.

"I'm fine, Dean!"

The older brother sighed and decided that he might as well just drop it since Sam wasn't going to admit he wasn't feeling well.

Even if he was sweating buckets despite the cool night air, and the fact that his face was a white as a sheet and that his eyes were just a little too bright.

Dean sat back and glanced around the moonlit lake. They were out far enough so that he could still see the shoreline but it was only a long black streak in the distance.

A wave of unease crept through the hunter. Only a tiny metal rowboat and a couple of harpoons stood between them and a monster that had already killed four people. If this thing turned out to be more than he and Sam could handle, they would be trapped out here on the lake.

"Maybe we should head in a bit," Dean suggested, trying not to let his anxiety bleed through into his tone.

"This thing does come close to shore," he continued, "It grabbed those teens and that kid-"

Although Sam didn't answer- he was probably too green around the gills to do so- a sound did reach Dean, though it wasn't exactly something he wanted to hear.

A loud plopping splash sounded nearby, seemingly just off the left side of the boat, as though something heavy had been dropped into the water.

All of Dean's muscles grew tense and he scanned the water on that side of the boat, noticing the minute bubbles that popped up along the water's surface close to where the sound had come from.

Sam, having heard the sound as well, slowly reached down toward the harpoons in the bottom of the boat.

Crash!

Before Dean could react, a long, three-foot wide tentacles with saucer-sized suction cups on one side and hard-as-rock black scales on the other side, broke the surface of the water and wrapped itself around his brother's chest.

Sam gasped in shock, but that was all he had time to do before he was dragged into the lake by the hungry beast.

Dean grabbed one of the harpoons from the boat's bottom without even looking and held it ready, the vessel rocking violently from side to side.

"SAM!" Dean shouted and fearfully scanned the water, hoping to see his brother resurface.

"SAMMY!"

Seconds ticked by and Dean quickly realized that the monster was not going to reappear.

It didn't surface.

Nor did Sam.

Realizing that he had to act quickly or his brother would die- eaten by the kraken or drown, Dean took a breath and stepped off the boat and into the lake.

The frigid water closed in around the hunter and he gasped in shock, drawing in a lungful of the chilly liquid.

Legs kicking, Dean's head broke the surface of the lake, spluttering, before drawing in another breath and diving down, struggling to see in the murky water.

The harpoon in the hunter's hands was of a newer make and once Dean had found the button to turn on the flashlight attached to the weapons handle, a white beam cut through the churning water, making visibility a bit better.

Dean, his eyes wide, searched the muddy water for any sign of his brother or the monster.

There!

The hunter spied a dark shadow a few feet away, slipping past his field of vision behind a curtain of silt-saturated water.

Using his arms and legs to propel him, Dean swam towards the shadow he had seen, ignoring the strain in his lungs telling him he needed to get to air.

The flashlight on the harpoon illuminated a long, sinuous tentacle, sliding through the water only inches from Dean's face. The hunter struggled to stop his forward motion and, using the harpoon as a torch, waved it this way and that, searching for the monster's eye.

The hunter startled when a plate-sized yellow eyeball, complete with a vertically slit pupil, opened up next to the hunter, the pupil shrinking into a paper thin sliver against the harpoon's light.

Dean, his lungs now burning for oxygen, raised the weapon and drove the sharp, barbed end of the harpoon into the eye.

The kraken's reaction was instantaneous. It jerked away from the hunter, blood streaming out from its wounded eye, its tentacles whipping to and fro- one smacking Dean in the head and nearly knocking him unconscious- as it swam deeper into the lake.

The hunter shook his head, dazed before he could gather his bearings and began swimming after the injured beast.

Realizing that the monster was about to get away, Dean reached out and grabbed onto one of the fleeing kraken's tentacles. The squid-like creature drew the tentacle close to its body, ready to snap it out like a whip and shake the hunter off, when Dean- within striking distance again- shoved the harpoon into the beast's wounded eye as hard as he could.

The tentacle beneath Dean's hand grew stiff as a board for a moment before it went as limp as a cooked noodle. Still not satisfied the kraken had kicked the bucket; Dean used the heel of his hand to drive the harpoon's blade even further into the monster's eye.

The kraken's tentacle remained flaccid and Dean released it. Finding Sam was now his priority but he needed to get some fresh air or his lungs were going to explode.

As quickly as he could, the eldest Winchester kicked towards the surface of the water and sucked in a huge breath of air, hoping that maybe his sibling had done the same.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, eyes narrowed against the water streaming from his hair, the hunter scanned the water's surface, "Sam?"

He's still in the lake, Dean thought with a sickening jolt. How long had he been down there? Was it already too late?

Pushing those thoughts from his mind, Dean dove beneath the water once again, wishing he had a light.

Kicking his tired legs, the hunter swam in the direction he hoped the kraken had drifted.

Now that he had had a chance to catch his breath, Dean actually felt a bit better, his lungs no longer feeling as though they were going to burst like overfull balloons.

Spurned on by his need to find his brother, Dean kicked harder and suddenly writhed as a burning pain raced up his left side.

For a second the hunter wondered if the kraken had managed to hurt him while he'd been distracted but then he realized he recognized this kind of pain. It was a cramp, a stitch in his side.

Dean gritted his teeth against the painful sensation, cursing the bacon cheeseburger he'd happily scarfed down not even an hour ago before heading out onto the lake.

Preoccupied with the cramp in his side, Dean failed to notice that the murky water had gotten considerably darker, as he almost swam right into the kraken's body.

Dean was shocked to find that he had swum all the way to the bottom of the lake. He squinted his eyes, trying to catch sight of his brother.

C'mon Sammy, where are you? Dean thought as he scanned the barely-visible coils of the monster's tentacles.

The eldest Winchester's heart skipped a beat when he spied a pale oval floating near a tangle of tentacles.

Swimming down towards the white form, Dean saw that it was Sam's face peeking out from underneath the kraken's tentacles.

Reaching down, the older brother grabbed his sibling's shoulders and tugged upwards. At first there was no movement, then slowly, inch by agonizing inch, Sam's unmoving body shifted out from beneath the tentacles.

Sand billowed up to obscure Dean's vision, grating against his open eyes but he ignored it, clenching his teeth as he wrapped one arm around his brother's chest and pushed up from the bottom with both feet, trying to propel both himself and Sam upwards.

The cramp in Dean's side flared up once again and he almost dropped his brother. Jaw tightened, Dean fought through the pain and pushed onward because if he didn't, Sam was dead.

W

Breaking through the water's surface for the final time, Dean gasped and panted, paddling with one arm to keep him buoyant while his other arm remained wrapped around his brother, keeping Sam's head above the water.

Glancing at his sibling, Dean saw Sam's hair plastered to his pale, blue-tinged face; eyes closed and feared the worst.

"C'mon Sammy," Dean muttered, "Let's get the hell out of here."

Scanning the surface of the water, the hunter caught sight of the boat a few meters away and began swimming towards it.

Minutes later- too many minutes, in Dean's opinion- the hunter had shoved his brother unceremoniously into the bottom of the tiny rowboat before joining him.

Sitting uncomfortably on one of the bench seat's, Dean leaned down and rolled his brother as well as he could onto his side and began rubbing his back vigorously.

"C'mon Sammy," Dean ground out, shivering, "C'mon, breathe, damn it."

He didn't know how much time had passed since the kraken had grabbed his brother and now, it felt like ages but in fact it had only been minutes and the longer Sam remained unresponsive, the more Dean feared he would not recover.

The elder Winchester, out of fear and desperation, dug the heel of his hand into his sibling's back, snarling at him.

"Wake up, Sam! Damn you!"

Suddenly, the younger Winchester shuddered and coughed, water and vomit spewing from his nose and mouth.

Dean laughed harshly and went back to rubbing Sam's back, between the shoulder blades.

"That's it, buddy," he encouraged, "You're doing great."

Sam gasped and opened his eyes, blearily staring up at his brother. Too weak to sit up, he remained in the bottom of the boat, his chest heaving as he focused all his energy on getting much needed oxygen into his battered body.

"You just relax," Dean said, "I got this."

Picking up the oars, he began paddling back towards the dark strip of the shore, vowing always to wait for at least an hour before going on any hunts where water was involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a rule idea, if you have one!


	6. Chapter 6

Rule 6: Don't let your little brother out of your sight

"…Okay, I've got it. Thanks for your help. No, we should be good now."

Dean listened anxiously as Sam finished with his call to Bobby. He looked up eagerly as his brother stuffed his cell phone into the pocket of his jeans.

"So, what are we up against?" Dean asked.

"A Gorgon," Sam replied and Dean frowned; that word sounded oddly familiar.

"Why-" the elder brother began but Sam, as though reading his mind, answered.

"Medusa was a Gorgon," he told Dean, "She was turned into a monster for offending the goddess Athena."

"What she do to Athena?" Dean asked curiously, "Steal her man?"

Sam didn't return the smile that had come across his sibling's face at the thought of ancient Greek gods and maidens acting like petty high schoolers.

"Poseidon raped Medusa in Athena's temple," Sam answered.

"Oh…uh, shit that sucks," Dean muttered.

Changing the subject from the reason for Medusa's punishment Sam continued, "Bobby doesn't think we're dealing with the real Medusa or her sisters but some sort of descendent."

"Wait," Dean held up a hand, "She has sisters?"

"Two of them," Sam confirmed, "Stheno and Euryale."

"And did they get turned into monsters too?"

Sam nodded.

"What the fuck is wrong with Greek gods?" Dean asked out loud.

Sam just shrugged.

"Did Bobby say how we kill this thing?" the elder Winchester asked and the younger nodded, "The same way it was done in legend: get the Gorgon to see its reflection and petrify itself."

"That sounds easier said than done," Dean commented.

Sam agreed, thinking of the poor people now lying paralyzed in the city's local hospital.

The attacks had started up about four weeks ago, at first not setting off any warning signs that the perpetrator was something supernatural. The victims had been attacked at night and many were members of the city's large homeless community.

Then, a businesswoman who had been walking her dog in the later hours had met the Gorgon; both the lady and her Pomeranian paralyzed.

Now there was a police curfew in effect, trying to prevent anymore attacks but just as always, people thought it was okay to break it and a group of teenage boys out prowling the deserted streets had been the latest victims.

Although legend described Medusa as being able to turn men into stone with one look, the civilians now lying in the hospital were in a state of paralyzed catatonia. They were not dead despite the fact that all their muscles seemed to be as hard as rock beneath their skin as doctors frantically searched for a way to reverse the affects of the strange affliction. Sam didn't think they could be helped and would remain the rest of their days as living statues.

"Do we have any idea where this bitch is?" Dean asked and Sam nodded.

"There's a boarded-up bar downtown that keeps having trouble with people prying off the plywood covering the back door and sneaking inside," Sam replied, "The only problem is, the plywood has some pretty clear signs that it has been scratched at by something sharp like claws recently."

Dean frowned, "How do you know that?"

Sam's expression grew sheepish; "I might have checked it out while you were at the library today."

"Sam! Why didn't you wait for me? You could have gotten hurt! Did you go in too or-"

The younger brother shook his head, "I heard about it from checking out the police reports. The property owner complained to the cops about it and they apparently can't do anything about the 'vandalism' unless they catch whose doing it. I didn't go inside, Dean, I'm not stupid."

Dean grumbled but decided to drop the topic.

"Are we ready to kill this thing?" Dean asked instead.

"We just need a couple of mirrors," Sam told him.

Checking his watch, the older Winchester stood, "Let's get going then, we'll buy the stuff we need and then head over to the bar before it gets too dark."

W

Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he parked the Impala across the street from the empty bar.

He normally didn't get nervous like this before a hunt- he was more likely to be excited- but this wasn't going to an easy kill-the-baddie-then-get-out kind of gig.

Not when they couldn't even look at the monster they were trying to kill.

Sam had told him that Bobby had suggested they close their eyes while in the bar because he wasn't sure if it was the Gorgon's face that would petrify them or her body in general.

The idea of stumbling around an abandoned bar did not turn Dean's crank at all.

Besides, if he kept his eyes closed, how could he keep an eye on Sam?

No, Dean decided he was not going to like this hunt at all.

Cutting the Impala's engine, Dean climbed from the driver's side as Sam exited the passenger's.

The mirror Dean held cut coldly into the side of his hand as he jogged across the street beside his brother, ducking into the alley beside the bar and into the small rear courtyard that was covered with grease-stains, old cigarette butts and bits of broken glass.

The sun was only starting to go down and although Dean would have liked to go after the Gorgon at noontime, they couldn't risk the monster having one more night to claim another victim.

Across the bar's backdoor was a large rectangle of pressboard, visible gouges cut out along either side of it.

Even though hooligans breaking into the bar had incensed the owner, the plywood board was not nailed down and Dean easily moved it aside.

"You ready?" he asked Sam and his brother nodded, his grip tightening noticeably on the mirror he carried.

Yanking the door open, Dean stepped into the dark back room of the bar.

The first thing the hunter noticed as his brother stepped in behind him and pulled the door closed, was the pervasive smell of stale alcohol and dust. It was clear that the building had been in disuse for a long time- months, maybe even as long as a year.

The second thing Dean noticed was just how dark it was. The hunter could barely see an inch in front of his face. He could only tell that Sam was close by because he could hear his brother breathing quietly and feel the heat coming off his body.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Dean pulled out the small penlight he had stashed there, just in case. Flicking the light on, he shone the thin beam around the immediate area; trying to get an idea of where everything was so he wouldn't bark his shins against the furniture.

"Dean," Sam said quietly but the older brother ignored him.

"There's a staircase on the other side of the room that must lead up to the bar itself," Dean told Sam and the younger man followed his gaze.

"Okay," Sam acknowledged, "Cut the light though."

Dean did as his brother asked and turned off the penlight, returning it to his pocket and walking carefully across the storeroom towards the far end.

The Winchesters carefully climbed the staircase leading to the bar, struggling to keep quiet as the wooden planks groaned and creaked under their weight.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean muttered as he reached the top of the stairs and pulled on the doorknob, finding the jamb stuck against the doorframe swollen, "How is this Gorgon supposed to see her own reflection if its dark like this?"

Dean heard Sam give an exasperated sigh from behind him, "She can see in the dark, Dean."

The older brother didn't reply but put his full weight into the door and it opened reluctantly with a screech of wood against wood.

Stumbling ever so slightly onto the upper floor, Dean looked around, waiting to see if his eyes would adjust to the darkness.

They did. He was able to make out the darker, brooding shapes of the bar's silent denizens- chairs and tables, a foosball and pool table, the bar itself hovering along one wall.

"Close your eyes," Sam instructed and for a moment Dean didn't before he slowly lowered his eyelids.

This is so stupid, he thought, how are we supposed to find the Gorgon when we can't even see-

The hunter stopped his thought as realization dawned on him.

They weren't going to search for the monster; Sam was planning on it finding them. That was why he was adamant that they keep their eyes closed, in case they be caught by surprise.

A sliver of fear slipped down Dean's spine and he remained where he was, suddenly afraid to move.

Sam, coming up behind him, knocked his shoulder and moved forward without a word.

"Sammy!" Dean whispered frantically, barely able to make out his brother's tall form in the darkness.

"Dean?" Sam asked, turning partway to try and see him.

"Be careful," the older brother advised and Sam assured Dean he would.

The hunter slowly made his way across the bar, one hand out so that he wouldn't run into anything, fingers trailing along tarp-covered pieces of furniture.

It was so quiet that Dean's own breathing seemed extremely loud in his ears. He couldn't even hear Sam's footsteps anymore.

Shhusshh shhusshh shhusshh

Dean paused as a barely perceptible sound broke through the silence. It was like someone was dragging something heavy across the floor, pausing for a couple of seconds before moving onwards.

The hunter, his heart skipping a beat, clenched his eyes shut and gripped his mirror tightly, the edge cutting into his hand.

Shhusshh shhusshh shhusshh

"Sam," Dean breathed, hoping that his brother would hear- if he hadn't heard the sound already- and have time to protect himself.

Muscles tense for the attack, Dean began to raise the mirror when something thick and heavy hit him on the side of the head and bright flashes of light appeared before his eyes before he lost consciousness, slumping unceremoniously to the floor.

W

Dean woke slowly, groggily, confused.

It took him a moment to realize why it was dark and why the side of his head was throbbing like a son of a bitch.

Raising himself up on his elbows, the hunter gingerly touched his head, grimacing at the sticky feel of blood beneath his fingers.

"Sam?" Dean called out as he got to his feet, fingers searching for his mirror and finding it, unbroken, underneath the pool table.

"Sammy?" Dean called out again.

He waited for a second and when he received no response he knew something was wrong.

A vision of his brother, hands held up in a futile attempt to protect his eyes, paralyzed and helpless, rose unbitten in Dean's mind and he gritted his teeth, telling himself that Sam was alright.

Taking a step forward, the hunter gasped as a wave of vertigo overcame him and he nearly lost consciousness for a second time.

"C'mon," Dean whispered to himself, "Sam needs you."

Fighting through the dizziness, Dean moved forward, listening intently for any sound that would give his brother away.

Across the room, behind the bar, came a faint rustle of clothing and what sounded like nails going down a chalkboard, causing Dean's hair to stand on end.

"Sammy," Dean spoke his brother's name and, despite the risks, grabbed his penlight again and turned it on, illuminating a thin path across the room.

Lifting the light higher, Dean froze when he made out an upper torso, and head that definitely belong to his brother. The Gorgon had its back to Dean and from what the hunter could see, the creature looked more snake than woman.

Starting from the nape of the woman's neck were small, brown scales that grew in number across her shoulders and the portion of her back that Dean could see. The Gorgon's head, just as legend foretold, was covered in tiny, writhing snakes with scales the same colour as the ones on her back.

Dean could see the curve of a full breast as she turned slightly; her arms raised shoulder-level as she struggled with something or someone standing in front of her.

The hunter felt his stomach lurch as he recognized the large form standing opposite the Gorgon; it was Sam.

"No," Dean breathed, his fears once again coming to the forefront of his mind and he stepped forward, penlight held high, not even concerned for his own safety.

As he approached the bar, the eldest Winchester could see his brother with more clarity. Sam stood with his back pressed against the empty shelves behind the bar; his eyes squeezed shut, a grimace of pain on his face.

Dean saw why. The Gorgon had one hand, tipped with talons, gripping Sam's shoulder tightly, drawing blood, while the other hand was tangled in the hunter's longish hair.

Glancing down, Dean saw that the lower half of the Gorgon was no longer that of a human and instead ended in a thickly coiled serpent's tail, the tail itself wrapped around Sam's legs. His brother's mirror lay smashed a few yards away.

The monster was so focused on Sam that she didn't even notice Dean's approach or even the thin beam of the penlight.

Before Dean could distract her away from his brother, he noticed that all was not as silent as he had first thought.

The Gorgon was talking, speaking to Sam in a pleading voice.

"Look at me," she said in a voice halfway between a feminine human tone and a snake's hiss, "Please, why won't you look at me?"

With a jolt, Dean wondered if the Gorgon even realized what she looked like and why no one ever wanted- or could- look at her.

Shoving those thoughts to the side as the monster continued to speak entreatingly to Sam- please, oh please, I won't hurt you, look at me- he raised his voice.

"Hey bitch!" Dean shouted as loud as he could, "Why don't you take a look for yourself and see why no one wants to look at you!"

The hunter closed his eyes before the words had even left his lips so he didn't see the Gorgon whip around towards him with lightning speed and gaze longingly into the mirror he held.

Dean heard the creature gasp- a gasp that was both shocked and sad- before it was cut off abruptly.

Carefully, the hunter eased one eye open an inch and saw the Gorgon, her eyes wide, mouth hanging open, snake hair froze mid-writhe, a living statue.

Avoiding looking directly at the monster's face, Dean grabbed the tarp that covered the bar and draped it over her head.

"Sam? Sammy!" Dean reached out and touched his brother, fearing the worst.

The younger man flinched and slowly opened his eyes.

"Dean!" he gasped and then saw the shroud-covered Gorgon inches from him.

"Is she?"

Dean nodded, "Worked like a charm."

Carefully the older brother helped Sam pull his legs out from the stiffened coils of the monster and they both took a step back, breathing heavily.

"I d-din't even h-hear you," Sam panted, "I j-just wasn't g-gonna open m-my eyes."

"That probably helped give me the element of surprise," Dean told his brother.

"What should we do with her?" Sam asked, one hand unconsciously going up to his injured shoulder, "We can't leave her here."

Dean smiled, "Take her with us. Maybe Bobby can put her on his lawn to scare away trespassers."

Sam chuckled quietly.

"I feel sort of sorry for her," he commented, "She didn't even know what she looked like. She just wanted people to look at her."

Dean grunted noncommittally.

"Let's get her out of here and head over to Bobby's," he said, more than ready to leave.

Sam nodded and walked around the bar, starting to make his way through the bar.

"Hey Sam!" Dean called, "Stay where I can see you!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has an idea for one of the 'rules' please feel free to share!


	7. Chapter 7

Rule 7: Always wear clean underwear

Dean opened his eyes and rolled onto his side, glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand that stood between the two motel beds.

It was a quarter to seven at night.

The hunter sat up and rubbed a hand tiredly over his face before peering to his right and seeing his brother already sitting up in bed. Sam sat with his back pressed against the headboard of his bed, a battered, water-stained copy of Watership Down held open in his hands though it was clear from his expression that he wasn't reading.

Dean stretched his arms over his head and was about to ask his brother when he had woken up but checked himself.

He knew Sam hadn't slept a minute, and how could he, with Hell rattling around in his head and Lucifer on his shoulder.

"Mind if I take first shower?" The eldest Winchester asked instead and Sam nodded almost imperceptivity.

Standing up and grabbing his duffel bag from where he had left it at the foot of his bed, Dean headed into the small bathroom to wash away the sleep from his mind and body and prepare himself for the hunt ahead.

W

Exiting the bathroom fifteen minutes later, the eldest Winchester noticed that Sam hadn't moved from his spot on the bed.

"Shower's free," he spoke quietly, almost as though he were in a library or a museum.

The younger hunter looked up and Dean held back the urge to frown and tell Sam that he could handle the hunt by himself tonight and that he should get some rest- but didn't speak, knowing it would do no good anyway.

Sam's eyes were dark green- almost black with exhaustion- and peered out from even darker circles like bruises surrounding them. The stubble that had shadowed his chin and cheeks only a couple of days earlier now looked as though it was striving fiercely to become a beard proper. Dean couldn't be sure- he didn't usually pay attention to such things- but he was almost certain that his brother was wearing the same clothes he had been for the past three days.

Dean was glad that he hadn't let Sam come along with him to the police station or to interview the witnesses of the attacks- his brother looked less like an FBI agent and more like a hobo- and made a mental note to get his sibling to try and focus on his personal hygiene a bit more.

"You ready?" his brother's voice jolted him from his thoughts and Dean nodded.

"You sure you can do this?" the eldest Winchester asked before he could stop himself.

Sam looked up at him, his expression for a split second was hurt before it hardened and he assured Dean that he was fine.

Knowing he had probably already gone too far, the eldest Winchester said nothing as he led the way out to the parking lot towards the Impala.

W

Dean's feelings of concern for his brother dried up- at least for the time being- as he kept in stride with Sam, a pistol loaded with silver bullets gripped tightly in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

Sam also carried a gun and his cell phone, staring at the map on the screen with the locations of the Black Dog attacks that had been occurring in the park over the past four weeks.

Several people had been killed- hikers and campers- while even more had barely escaped with their lives after witnessing the brutal deaths of their friends or loved ones.

Now, the park rangers were keeping overnight campers out of the area and even were going so far as to patrol the more heavily populated camping grounds for anyone foolish enough to be in the woods at night.

The local authorities believed that a cougar was responsible for the killings, despite what the witnesses claimed- it was dark, and there was no way they could really be certain of what they saw- and since there were no wolves in the area and only the occasional black bear, which rarely attacked people- the wild cat theory appeared to have stuck.

Dean's attention focused on his brother when Sam looked up into the woods around them- they were on a narrow hiking path- and stopped walking.

"What is it, Sammy?" the older brother asked, raising his gun to be ready for an attack, but then his sibling shook his head and continued onward.

"We should be getting closer to the Dog's territory?" Dean asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

Sam didn't reply.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, his voice slightly louder.

His brother continued walking forward; not even seeming to notice Dean hadn't caught up with him.

"SAM!" the older hunter snapped and his brother looked up sharply, half-turning to face him.

Abruptly, suddenly, before either Winchester could react, a patch of darkness tore itself from the surrounding shadows and ploughed into the younger Winchester's back, driving him to the ground.

"SAMMY!" Dean shouted, belatedly thinking: that thing was behind us, it was following us; it must have been.

Raising his weapon, the eldest Winchester squeezed off two shots into the creature's exposed back. Even as the Black Dog howled in pain, Dean heard Sam cry out as well.

"SAMMY!" Dean called a second time and fired his gun a third time, the bullet slamming into the back of the Black Dog's head, killing it instantly.

"Sam? Sammy!" the older brother cried and dropped to his knees beside his sibling, shoving the body of the monster off Sam and raising his flashlight to assess the damage.

Sam lay crumpled on the floor of the path, head turned to one side. Dean felt his stomach fill with ice when he saw the back of his brother's shirt darkening with blood and more blood matting his hair and the nape of his neck.

"Sammy? Sam? Can you hear me? Sam? Answer me!"

Leaning over his brother, Dean felt his heart skip a beat when he saw that Sam's eyes were open, just barely but they were glazed, with a far away look in them.

"Sammy?" he whispered, realizing that there was no way his brother was walking out of this forest.

Sitting up and panning his flashlight around, Dean spied Sam's cell phone lying a few feet away, facedown on a protruding rock.

Reaching out, the hunter grabbed the phone and smiled when he saw the screen unbroken. Pushing the home button and thumbing in Sam's password, Dean held his breath as he waited for a signal.

A groan from his younger sibling drew Dean's attention to Sam for a moment.

"D'n," Sam whimpered.

"It's okay Sammy," Dean murmured as he watched one and then two bars appear on the screen, "It'll be okay."

Dialing 911, Dean requested an ambulance to come to the campground because there had been another 'cougar' attack and his brother needed help. The dispatcher assured Dean that an ambulance was on its way to his location as they spoke and would be there in roughly ten minutes.

Shoving Sam's phone into his pocket, Dean returned his attention to his brother and, reaching out, took one of his hands to comfort him as much as he could until the paramedics arrived.

W

Dean opened the door to Sam's hospital room quietly. He had just finished speaking with his brother's doctor and was concerned about what he'd been told.

The Black Dog- or cougar, depending on who you asked- had managed to rake its claws down the younger Winchester's back, gouging him deeply enough to require stitches and had bit into back of the hunter's head before his brother had been able to kill it. Dean didn't much like the gashes in Sam's back but what really troubled him was the bite- and concussion from his fall- to his head.

Closing the door behind him, Dean was surprised when Sam raised his head slightly at the sound of the jamb clicking into place.

"Sammy?" he said and stepped forward, grabbing the chair set aside for visitors, pulling up to the hospital bed and taking a seat.

The younger Winchester was lying on his stomach because of the stitches in his back, his head resting on a starched, white pillow; the blood cleaned away from the bite marks. An IV line trailed from Sam's left hand to a pole standing beside the bed, giving the hunter painkillers and antibiotics to fight off possible infection.

"Sammy?" Dean spoke again but when he looked into his brother's face, he saw that his eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and steady.

The older Winchester smiled, glad that Sam was getting a chance to sleep.

Standing, Dean made his way to the stocky, white laminate-coated wardrobe beside the bed, on Sam's other side and found the clothes his brother had worn into the hospital, neatly folded and placed into a plastic bag, despite the bloodstains coating them.

Dean took the bag and opened it, deciding that he could get Sam some clean clothes to wear from his duffel in the Impala's truck.

Peering into the bag at the ruined clothing, still tacky with blood, Dean pulled back at the smell that wafted up; not only of blood but also of body odors.

"Whew Sammy," Dean waved a hand in front of his nose in an exaggerated way even though his sibling was asleep and wouldn't hear his teasing, "I sure hope you at least had the decency to wear clean underwear. Those poor nurses if you didn't."

Closing the bag back up, the hunter silently left the hospital room; grateful that he still had his brother even with all the baggage he carried.

Author's Note:

This rule comes from reannablue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know people on this site are shy about commenting, but if you have an idea for a 'rule' for hunting, please feel free to let me know. I am always open to suggestions!


	8. Chapter 8

Rule 8: Don't leave M&Ms in the hot sun

Dean leaned forward in the Impala's front passenger seat and turned up the volume on the radio as John Fogerty began to belt out, "Eye Of The Zombie" and even his father began to tap his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove.

From the back seat of the classic Chevy, Sam groaned and wiped a forearm over his brow, his skin slick with sweat despite all four windows in the vehicle being wide open.

"Are we there yet?" the eleven-year old asked, his eyelids heavy with the heat.

"We still have a few hours to go," John replied and Sam sighed.

The Winchesters were heading towards Corpus Christi, Texas where a Chupacabra was attacking unattended pets and small children in the Flour Bluff neighbourhood.

The eleven-year old closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep before they arrived at their destination. Soon, the oppressive heat and motion of the Chevy eased the youngest Winchester into a light slumber.

W

"W-Where are we?" Sam stammered tiredly as the Impala ground to a halt and he sat up, grimacing as he pulled his damp t-shirt away from his chest where it had stuck with sweat.

From his seat ahead of Sam, Dean turned to face his brother.

"Gas station," the fifteen-year old answered and Sam glanced out the window, seeing a run-down row of four pumps and a small store, coated with dust.

Besides the station, there was nothing else around. The road the Winchesters were on was bordered on both sides by an endless yellow-sand desert, broken only occasionally by a jut of red sandstone or a dark green cactus.

"You two want to come in?" John asked as he opened his door.

Dean instantly jumped at the chance and followed their father out, standing beside the pump impatiently as he waited for John to top up the Impala and head inside where there would be snacks.

Sam remained where he was. He didn't care to go into the convenience store. Knowing Dean, he wouldn't take long to find something he wanted.

The eleven-year old rubbed a hand over his eyes before he placed his forearm along the open window and rested his chin on his arm, staring out at the desert.

SPN

Dean went ahead of John into the convenience store, making a beeline for the candy section.

"All right!" he exclaimed happily at the sight of three different kinds of M&Ms- almond, peanut and milk chocolate- and grabbed a couple of yellow baggies.

"Dad!" the fifteen-year old called to his father who was up at the front of the store, paying for the gas, "Can I get these?"

John turned as his eldest son came towards him from the candy aisle. It was clear from the expression on the hunter's face that he was in a hurry and would rather not be delayed with buying treats for his teenage son. However, he turned back to the pretty, young Latino girl behind the counter, and spoke to her, "The candy too."

"Did you get something for your brother?" John asked and Dean frowned for a moment before reaching out to the shelve of snacks in front of the cash register and grabbing a bag of Snyder's Honey Mustard and Onion flavoured Pretzel Pieces and setting them down on the counter alongside the M&M's.

After paying for the snacks, John handed them to Dean and followed him outside. The teen noticing two large motorcycles propped up in front of two pumps, their owners nowhere to be seen.

"Hey Sammy!" Dean called and tossed the pretzels through the open back passenger-side window closest to him and froze.

The bag of pretzels landed heavily on the Impala's bench seat, its empty seat. Sam was not in the car.

"Sammy?" Dean asked and peered through the window to the other side of the car, thinking that maybe his brother had decided to stretch his legs after all.

"Sam!" John barked, his tone commanding his youngest son to appear from wherever he was that instant.

Dean trotted around to the right side of the Chevy and threw his own snacks onto his seat before gazing out at the desert landscape surrounding them.

"Sammy!" Dean called, his heart beginning to pound with fear, his palms clammy with nervous sweat.

"SAM!" John shouted, louder than his son.

Suddenly, the father turned and saw two young men, one of Mexican descent and one with blond hair and blue eyes- both wearing denim jackets, red bandanas on their heads, jeans and black leather hobnail boots- run out from behind the convenience store, where the bathrooms were located, jump on their motorcycles as though Hell Hounds were chasing them and peel away from the station with a scream of rubber.

Dean's heart dropped down into his stomach even as it began trotting with fear. Something was very wrong.

"Sammy!" the fifteen-year old called his brother's name and headed around to the back of the store, John following right behind him.

For a moment Dean didn't see his brother. All he saw was an upright glass-windowed freezer with bags of ice inside and a hulking green dumpster. Three doors were outlined along the back wall of the building itself; one was a men's restroom, one a women's' and the third a rear entrance to the store- probably leading into the storage area- then he noticed the crumpled form curled against the dumpster.

"Sammy," Dean breathed and rushed forward, John at his side.

The eleven-year old sat with his legs pulled up to his chest but his arms dangled at his sides. His head rested against the side of the rusty, flaking dumpster. The boy's eyes were closed.

"Sammy?" Dean called and his brother's eyes fluttered.

"Dean?" he whispered, "Dad?"

Sam tried to shift his position and gasped in pain, arms wrapping around his middle. Dean saw that blood had flowed from his nose down his face and was already drying on his chin.

"What happened?" the older brother asked and reached out to place his hands beneath Sam's armpits and lifted him closer, raising his t-shirt to examine his abdomen. Dean frowned at the bruises darkening the skin across his sibling's trunk. Carefully, the fifteen-year old reached out with his free hand and prodded Sam's ribs, checking for any cracks or breaks.

The eleven-year old whimpered but spoke, eyes focusing on his father's face as Dean continued his examination.

"D-Did you s-see those two g-guys?"

"We did," John answered, his tone tight and unhappy.

"Th-they pulled up beside us a f-few minutes after you and Dean went inside," Sam continued, "The- OW!"

"Sorry, Sammy," the fifteen-year old murmured apologetically.

"They s-saw the car and a-asked about it. They w-wanted to s-see if they c-could buy it or s-something," Sam kept speaking though his voice was becoming fainter.

"I s-said no," he told them, "And th-they turned and I th-thought they were g-gonna go inside. The one with blond hair went a-around the b-back of the car and grabbed m'arm and pulled m-me out…he opened the d-door and pulled me out."

"The-Then the other one grabbed my arm too a-and they dragged me behind the s-station," Sam whispered.

"Why didn't you call for help?" John asked, as Dean finished his exam of Sam's ribs and lowered his shirt back into place.

The eleven-year old raised an arm and wiped it across his nose, smearing the skin with blood.

"They c-covered my mouth so I couldn't," he answered dejectedly, "S-Shoved… They shoved me into the wall and held me there. One of them punched me in the face… I don't r-really remember a whole lot after that… Then they kicked me…"

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean murmured and slipped a gentle arm across his brother's shoulders. Miraculously he hadn't felt any broken ribs but they had certainly taken a beating and were bruised, if not cracked, and would be sore for a few weeks, maybe a month or two.

"Then you started calling my name," Sam started again, "And they got scared and ran."

John clenched his hands into fists. If he had known that was why those two punks had running for their bikes as though the Devil himself was chasing them, he'd have stopped them and given them something to be afraid of.

"Can you stand?" Dean asked and Sam nodded, "I think so."

With both hands once again beneath his baby brother's armpits, the fifteen-year old stood, drawing Sam up with him. The younger Winchester grimaced in pain and his breath came in panting gasps but he was standing, if hunching a bit.

"Let's just get to Corpus Christi," John told his sons as he led them slowly around to the front of the convenience store.

Dean opened the Impala's back door closest to them and Sam crawled into the vehicle, whimpering in pain. Only once he was sitting in his seat behind Dean's, did the older brother close the door.

"You alright, Sam?" John asked as Dean made his way around to his side of the car.

"Yeah," Sam replied shortly, clearly still in pain from his battered ribs.

Dean dropped down into his own seat and picked up one of the bags of M&Ms.

"Why don't you lay down?" the eldest Winchester suggested, "Try and get some rest."

As John started the Impala's engine and began to pull away from the gas station, Dean tore open the bag of candies and eagerly stuck his hand in.

"Hey!" he exclaimed and withdrew his hand, his fingers slick with melted chocolate.

Peering into the bag in irritation, the fifteen year old saw that his M&M's had been reduced to a sticky mess of gloopy chocolate and candy with peanuts suspended in it.

The candies had melted in the hot Texas sun.

"Hey Sammy? Are you gonna eat those pretzels?" Dean asked his brother.

Without a response, the eleven-year old handed the snack over to his sibling.

"Thanks Sammy," Dean replied and opened the bag, shoving a handful of pretzel pieces into his mouth.

"Here."

Sam looked up and saw his brother proffering an open bag of pretzels.

The eleven-year old smiled, despite his sore ribs and took a handful of the snack.

"Thanks, Dean."

Author's Note:

Rule suggested by Reannablue. This one is more on the humorous side, especially after the last one, which wasn't really until the end, but I just had to go with the Black Dog attacking Sam. If you've been with me for a while, you know my style and my penchant for hurt!Sam and caring, protective Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a suggestion for a 'rule'. You can do so by leaving it in the COMMENT section. Thanks!


	9. Chapter Nine

Rule 9: Report all vehicle damage to a car-obsessed big brother immediately

Sam couldn't believe it!

It just wasn't fair! Dean thought just because he was older, he could tell him what to do.

Sam glared around at the three other cars parked in the gravel lot stood in front of the forested series of hiking trails where the monster they were hunting hid.

Where the monster Dean's hunting is hiding, Sam corrected himself and sat back against the seat with his arms crossed over his chest.

Just because he had a little bit of a cold didn't mean he couldn't hunt, Sam thought moodily before he leaned forward to dig through the glove compartment frantically.

Finding what he was looking for, the younger Winchester grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped at his dripping nose.

Sighing, Sam closed his eyes as a chill ran through his entire body and he shivered.

Okay, maybe a little cold was a bit of an understatement, Sam admitted. Especially when his head felt ten sizes too big for his neck, and his throat felt as though he'd been swallowing shards of glass and his nose streamed like it was trying to outdo Niagara Falls.

But Sam still thought that he could hunt.

He hated being told to wait in the car; it made him feel like he was a kid again, before John would let him go on any hunts with them and he was forced to watch over the Impala, as though that was an important part of the job.

Ah well, Sam guessed he should be grateful for the reprieve from hunting. At least he was getting a bit of a break at all. If their father had been there, he would have told Sam to suck it up and forced him to traipse through the woods all the while he was wracked with fever and snorting back snot the whole time.

Leaning back against his seat again, Sam closed his eyes, trying to get some rest while he waited for Dean.

W

Sam's eyes snapped open at the sound of his cell phone going off. Sitting up in his seat he pulled the phone from his pocket and saw from the Caller ID that it was Dean calling him.

"Yeah?" Sam asked as he answered the call.

"Get over here, Sammy! With the car!" Dean panted into the speaker, his tone urgent.

"Dean? Are you alright?" the younger brother asked, his heart skipping a beat.

"Just get over here! Trail 3, the red one!"

Without even saying goodbye, Sam ended the call and shoved his phone back into the pocket of his jacket, at the same time sliding over to the driver's seat of the Classic Chevy.

Starting the engine, Sam held back the feeling of a sneeze coming on and he maneuvered the car towards the dirt path that ran up through the woods- a wooden arm crossing the way to prevent vehicles larger than a stroller or bicycle from getting through- and towards the numerous hiking trails.

Sam stepped on the accelerator and broke through the wooden barrier, the tires rolling over it with muted crunching sounds.

He had no idea where Trail 3 was- he couldn't remember even though he had marked out each of the trails on the map he had grabbed a couple of days before at the Ranger's Station. Once he had crossed onto the path, Sam slowed the Impala to nearly a crawl and searched the trees on either side for signs of the trail he was looking for.

It took nearly five minutes for Sam to find Trail 3. He would have missed it completely but for the smear of flaking red paint marking a vertical slash across the trunk of a pine a few feet away from the edge of the road.

The Trail was narrow, with trees crowding in on either side, and Sam hesitated.

Dean needed him. Maybe he had found the monster. Maybe he was hurt.

Sam couldn't wait, couldn't waste anymore time.

Pressing his foot down on the gas, he inched the Impala onto the trail that was not designed for anything wider than a bicycle. Sam grimaced as branches as leaves smacked against the roof of the Chevy, scratched against its sides but told himself that it didn't matter, especially if Dean was in danger.

The Impala bumped over exposed roots and large stones, and Sam heard a strange grinding sound coming from beneath the car but ignored it.

SREEEECCCHHH- THUNK

Sam jumped a little in his seat and glanced out the front window. The trail was far too narrow and overgrown for him to continue down it with the car. He would have to keep going on foot.

Opening the driver's side door, Sam leaned out of the car.

"Dean!" he called, pausing to listen for a reply.

"DEAN!" he cried in a louder tone and again listened for a response.

There was none.

Shit, maybe his brother was seriously hurt.

Reaching into the Impala's backseat, Sam grabbed the shotgun loaded with silver buckshot and slipped out of the car.

"Dean? Dean!" Sam called again as he stepped around to the front of the car and headed down the trail, searching for any sign of his brother.

"DEAN!"

Almost as soon as the name out was of his mouth, Sam heard a cry come from down the trail ahead of him.

"Dean! Dean, where are you?" the younger Winchester called as he began to rush down the trail, stumbling over rocks and roots, gasping for air even from the mild exertion.

"SAM! Here!"

The hunter came around a bend in the trail and saw his brother sprawled out in the dirt, holding his arm to his chest.

"Dean! Are you okay? What happened?" Sam exclaimed and crouched down beside his sibling.

"I'm fine, Sammy, just a scratch, really," Dean insisted as the younger Winchester helped him stand.

"Did you get the Black Dog?" Sam asked and Dean nodded, "Better than it got me."

Once his brother was standing, Sam grabbed his brother's gun and began to lead the way back to the car.

"You should have let me come with you," Sam said as Dean followed behind him, "I could have helped you. Maybe you wouldn't have gotten hurt if I'd-"

"I'm fine, Sammy," Dean told him, "Besides, I wouldn't have been able to stand it, hearing you snorting and sniffling and hacking everywhere. It's bad enough in the car."

Sam lifted his arm to his nose as it began to drip and tried not to snort as he did so.

"Hey!" Dean cried out as the Impala came into view, "Sammy, what'd you do?"

"B-Brought you the car," Sam replied, "Like you said."

Dean scowled at him before running to the vehicle, eyeing the black paint for scratches.

"Jesus, Sam! You could have ruined the paint!" he snapped, "Why'd you bring it in here? Huh? Can't you use your head?"

Sam stared at his brother, hurt by his sibling's anger.

"Sorry," he muttered and made his way to the passenger's side of the car and climbed into the seat.

Once Dean was behind the wheel, he turned to Sam, "You're lucky she's not scratched or I'd have to kick your ass."

Sam looked away from his brother and grabbed a tissue from the glove compartment.

As Dean backed the Impala down the trail he didn't say anything and Sam didn't say anything either.

"Hey," Dean muttered once they had reached the main path and he'd pulled a U-turn, "Sorry, Sammy. Thanks for coming to get me."

Sam nodded but remained silent.

"Let's head back to the motel and then get something to eat," Dean suggested.

He reached out and turned on the stereo, smiling when the Allman Brothers' 'Midnight Rider' came on over the speakers, and turned the volume onto full blast.

Sam curled against the passenger's side door, shivering but glad they were going back to the motel. Maybe he could get some sleep before they went out for food.

Dean drove past the parking lot and pulled onto the main roadway- a two-lane highway- and began to head in the direction of the motel room, singing along loudly to 'Midnight Rider'.

The hiking trails were a few miles outside of town and bordering the highway were trees on either side of the asphalt; tall, dark pines that crowded next to the pavement.

"…But I'm not gonna let 'em catch me, no," Dean belted out happily, ignoring the pain in his arm from the Black Dog's claws, "…Not gonna let 'em catch the Midnight Rider!"

Neither Winchester noticed the check engine light come on, nor did he hear the incessant beeping that indicated a serious problem was imminent.

"…No, I'm not gonna let 'em catch me, no," Dean now began to tap his hand on the steering wheel, pretending that his injured arm didn't hurt at all, "…Not gonna let 'em catch the Midnight Rider…"

Dean's singing slowly came to a stuttering stop as the Impala slowed down, spluttered and coasted along until the hunter could pull over onto the shoulder of the road.

"What the hell?" Dean muttered and peered at the gauges along the dashboard in confusion.

"Dean?" Sam looked up blearily, his voice thick with confusion.

"The car just stopped," Dean ground out and spied the check engine light blinking red, than black, red, than black, on the dash.

Sam's eyebrows knitted in confusion, mirroring his sibling's expression.

Dean opened the door and stepped out onto the side of the road, walking to the front of the Chevy and popped the hood.

Sam listened to his brother as he fiddled with the tubes and wires and nozzles that made up the guts of the car before Dean slammed the hood down and headed back towards the driver's side.

"Can you get the car started?" Sam asked.

"No," Dean growled as he fell into his seat. He pulled out his cell phone and began pressing numbers apparently randomly.

As it turned out, Dean was calling for the services of a tow truck, all the while glaring at Sam as though he had pulled the Impala's spark plugs out and thrown them in the woods or something.

"…You sure? Okay… sure… thanks," Dean muttered as he spoke to the towing service before ending the call.

"A truck should be here in half an hour to forty-five minutes," Dean told his brother.

"It'll take that long?" Sam asked before he grabbed a tissue from the glove compartment and wiped his nose.

"Yeah," Dean muttered.

The brothers were silent for a long time. The only sound was Sam's labored breathing.

"What's happened to the car?" the younger brother finally asked.

"We're leaking engine fuel," Dean explained and turned in his seat to point out the back of the car. Sam twisted around at the waist and saw a dark red trail of spots leading away from the car back towards the direction they had come from.

Sam's eyes widened in shock; how did that happen, he thought but then he quickly recalled his attempt at driving the Classic Chevy down Trail 3 towards his brother and all the thumping and scraping coming from beneath the car.

Suddenly Sam didn't feel so cold anymore. Instead, a film of sweat beaded his brow and upper lip. He shifted in his seat, turning to face the window.

"Sam? Sammy, what's wrong?" Dean said instantly, concerned for his brother.

"Nuh-Nothing, Dean," Sam muttered, "I'm fine."

"You sure? You look like you've just seen a ghost," Dean commented and sniggered.

Sam shook his head, "I'm fine."

The older Winchester remained silent for a moment before he spoke again.

"Sam?" he said slowly, "Do you know what happened to the car?"

"No," the younger brother answered quickly, too quickly and cringed, "No, I don't."

Again Dean lapsed into silence for a few moments then spoke again.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Sammy?"

Sam said nothing.

"Sammy? Look at me," Dean said and reached out to touch his brother's shoulder, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Cautiously the younger brother peered over his shoulder at his older sibling and took a deep breath, "I…uh… while I was coming to get you… and I was driving through the woods…"

"Yeah?" Dean pressed.

"I uh… well, I might have drove the car over… uhm, some rocks…or, or tree roots."

For a moment, Dean didn't say anything then he shouted, "Damn it, Sam! You busted a hole in the engine!"

Sam, because he was sick and not feeling well, cringed back from his brother's wrath.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, "I thought you were in danger."

Dean scowled at him, "Great, now we have to stick around and wait for the engine to get fixed, not to mention pay for something that we wouldn't have to if you had been thinking straight."

Sam tried to match his brother's expression, "I said I was sorry! I thought you were hurt, that you were dying!"

Dean stared at Sam for a few seconds. He was just so mad about the damage to the car that he hadn't thought about Sam's feelings.

"You… You thought I was dying?"

Sam nodded, his eyes red rimmed- but that could have been from his cold- and Dean let out a loud breath.

"Aw jeez," he muttered.

"You sounded bad on the phone," Sam told him, "And I didn't know… You could have been…"

Dean shook his head, "I'm sorry, Sammy. I should have told you I was okay. I shouldn't have freaked you out like that."

"Sorry about the car," Sam repeated his apology.

Dean waved it away, "Don't worry about it, Sammy. It was my fault for not telling you I wasn't hurt."

Sam bit his lip and nodded, turning away to stare out the window.

W

Sixty minutes later the Winchesters spied a rusty, old tow truck pull up behind the Impala.

"About time," Dean muttered as he stepped out of the car.

"How's your arm?" Sam asked, concerned that they had waited too long to get his brother medical treatment and the injury had become worse.

"Better now," Dean replied and walked over to the tow truck driver, a man wearing a grimy John Deere baseball cap, white t-shirt, blue jeans and boots. The man's face was deeply lined and he had a beard that made him look like a member of ZZ Top.

"Hey Sammy! Don't forget your wallet," Dean called, "You're paying for Baby's medical bill."

Sam, climbing from the Chevy's passenger seat sighed in exasperation but couldn't help the small smile that crossed his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have an idea for a "rule" please leave feel free to leave it in a comment. Thanks :)


	10. Chapter 10

Rule 10: Batman can't fly

"Dad said to stay here," Sam reminded his older brother as Dean eased open the cabin door and peered outside.

The fifteen-year old glanced over his shoulder at his younger sibling and made a disgusted noise, "Since when do you do what Dad tells you?"

Sam didn't even flinch at the jab.

"Dad told us to stay inside because he doesn't know what's going on, Dean," Sam explained his reason for obeying their father's stern order, "And its safer where we are."

"I won't go far," the fifteen-year old assured him, "I just need some fresh air."

The eleven-year old sat up on the worn, Navajo patterned couch and stared at his brother, biting his lip. Sam had to admit, he was tired of being cooped up inside all the time. The Winchesters had arrived at Camp Henrietta- advertised as a vacation destination for city folk- three days ago and as of yet, John hadn't been able to figure out what was causing entire families to vanish without a trace, leaving their luggage, and sometimes meals as though they intended to return in a few minutes.

Camp Henrietta was located a few miles outside of busy Chicago, surrounded by woods that were supposed to help suburbanites forget about the smog and skyscrapers of the city. Consisting of two-dozen cabins circling a manmade lake, with a large campground beyond that, Camp Henrietta was huge and really had more ground than John Winchester could cover in just a handful of days. As soon as they had arrived, Dean had begged John to go out with him as he searched for clues, a request the eldest Winchester had denied because Dean had to look after Sam instead. Besides, John didn't know what was going on and he didn't want to drag his sons into a situation even he wasn't completely sure of.

So, instead of taking his boys with him, John booked a cabin and forbade his sons from leaving it. The cabin was small and truly made for vacationers. It had a small wooden porch, with a couple of Muskoka chairs squeezed onto it. Inside, the cabin had a large main room which consisted of the Navajo-patterned couch, a bunny-eared television set that only played static, a tiny kitchenette featuring a bar fridge, a sink, and a stove and virtually no cupboards. At the back of the cabin was a small room with a set of bunk beds. The only other room was a tiny bathroom that was only big enough for one person at a time to use the facilities. John, whenever he returned from searching for clues and talking to witnesses, crashed on the couch in the cabin's main room, leaving the bunk beds for his sons.

"We won't be long," Dean spoke up, seeing that his brother really wanted to come with him, "We'll be back before Dad even knows we were gone."

"Promise?" Sam asked. He hated it when his Dad got mad and yelled at him, something that seemed to be happening more and more often lately.

"I promise," Dean said, keeping one hand behind his back so his younger brother wouldn't see he'd crossed his fingers.

"Okay," Sam replied and slid off the bed, walking across the wooden floor to the front door and grabbing his sneakers.

Stepping out onto the cabin's porch, Sam could see that it really was a beautiful day out; the sun was shining in a cloudless blue sky and there were even families enjoying the weather as though in defiance of the mysterious happenings occurring in the campground. As the eleven-year old slid into his shoes, he laughed at the sight of a teenager with longish blond hair running past in nothing but a pair of swimming trunks as he threw a Frisbee to a Dalmatian. The dog expertly caught the flying disk in its mouth and ran after the young man, its tail wagging happily.

"See Sammy, we're outside and we're not melting or anything," Dean said as he slumped for a moment into one of the Muskoka chairs, "And nothing is popping out of the trees to grab us. We're fine. Dad's just overreacting."

Sam's gaze took in the area in front of their cabin, a long grassy swath that led to a narrow bar of sand that bordered the manmade lake.

"Yeah," he muttered; it didn't seem like anything bad could happen to anyone on a wonderfully balmy July day like this, "Maybe you're right."

Dean snorted, "Of course I'm right. C'mon, lets go down to the lake."

Sam walked the short distance to the edge of the porch, before jumping off and calling back to Dean who was just climbing from the Muskoka chair, "I'll race you!"

The eleven-year old took off across the grass, running as fast as he could, hearing his brother's fleet footsteps just behind him.

As Sam reached the beach he let his knees go limp and he fell onto the sand, laughing. Dean landed beside him, equally breathless and cheerful.

His brother rolled over onto his stomach and raised himself up onto his elbows, gazing out at the dark blue water of the lake.

"Want to go for a swim?" Sam asked, digging the toes of his shoes into the warm sand.

Dean's gaze followed the path of a motorboat as it zoomed across the water before he answered.

"Want to check out the island?"

Sam looked up at the mound of grassy earth and towering pine trees situated in the middle of the lake.

"Sure," he said, "That'd be cool."

Dean stood and brushed sand off the front of his shirt and shorts.

He started off towards the dock where a menagerie of rowboats and motorboats sat.

Sam followed his brother onto the dock, walking carefully as it rocked from side-to-side slightly with water and approached one of the rowboats that could be rented out by anyone vacationing at Camp Henrietta- the motorboats were owned by families who brought them to the lake- and climbed into it. He gave a slight smile as Dean gazed longingly at one of the motorboats before he dropped into the rowboat and slipped the rope out of the hook that attached it to the dock.

Automatically, Dean grabbed the oars and began rowing towards the island.

"You get to do this on the way back," he grunted to Sam and the eleven-year old nodded, grinning.

W

"This is so neat," Sam said as he stared up at the tall trees crowding close to the edge of the island.

Dean stepped off the rowboat, stopped up against a sandbar and glanced around.

"There's no one here," he commented.

"Aw, look at that!" Dean pointed and ran around a bend in the island where it jutted out a bit more and stared at a small pontoon plane resting in the shallows.

"Guess we're not the only ones here," Sam said from over his brother's shoulder.

"C'mon Dean," he said, turning away from the plane, "Let's see what's in the forest."

Sam was glad his brother had persuaded him to get out of the cabin. Just being in the sunlight and fresh air was lifting his mood and making his brain feel less dull and slow. He found himself smiling more and laughing at Dean when he'd just scowled at him when they'd been stuck in the cabin.

"Hey, Sammy! Wait up!" Dean called from behind him and the eleven-year old heard his brother pounding up the narrow beach after him.

"Wonder what's in there?" Sam muttered, more to himself than to his brother and slipped through the treeline.

"Its probably where all the teenagers go to get drunk and make out," Dean told him and Sam grimaced, "Gross."

The fifteen-year old smirked, "You won't think it's so gross in a few years."

Sam just shook his head, rolling his eyes, slipping between two pine trees-

-And falling headfirst down a steep incline.

Sam didn't have time to cry out as he rolled and crashed down the embankment, hitting rocks and saplings on the way down. He heard his brother calling out his name overhead but Dean's voice sounded like it was coming a million miles away.

The eleven-year old landed in a green, nonflowering bush that had branches that ended in three leaves. Sam lay on the ground for a moment- what felt like a moment- dazed and sick.

"SAM! SAMMY!" Dean's voice kept calling him, coming closer and closer.

Slowly, the eleven-year old got to his hands and knees. He closed his eyes for a moment; he didn't feel as though he'd broken anything and staggered to his feet.

Sam brought a hand to his head and glanced up the slope where Dean was inching his way down.

"Sam! Are you okay?"

"I… I think so," he answered, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth.

He took a few cautious steps forward and when he felt no pain other than the dull throb of bruises, Sam continued towards his brother.

"Aw shit," he heard Dean mutter and he looked up, confused, thinking he'd been hurt worse than he believed.

"Come on out of there," the fifteen-year old said frantically and Sam felt adrenaline course through his bloodstream, thinking he was in danger.

"What is it?" he asked nervously as he struggled up the slope towards his brother. Dean, who normally would reach out to help him, seemed reluctant to touch him.

"I think that's poison ivy, Sammy," Dean told him.

The eleven-year old looked over his shoulder- a wave of nausea accompanying the motion- and stared at the bush he'd landed in, a large swath of its leaves crushed by his body weight.

"I feel okay," he insisted.

Dean glanced at him suspiciously but nodded, grim-faced.

"Let's go back across the lake," he said, "I want to check you out."

Sam nodded, though he didn't think he'd had anything worse than a few bumps and scrapes from his tumble down the embankment.

The slope was so steep in places that the eleven-year old almost had to climb up on his hands and knees in places, the position causing him to feel dizzy and lightheaded.

He was about halfway up the hill when he started feeling an uncomfortable itching sensation on his arms and legs where his skin was exposed, on the back of his neck and his face.

"D-Dean?"

The fifteen-year old looked back and Sam met his gaze.

"I don't feel so good," Sam closed his eyes and when he opened them again he saw that the skin on his arms was beginning to form a raised, bumpy red rash.

"Damn it," he heard Dean swear.

Sam lifted one hand to scratch at the irritation but Dean barked at him, "Don't! You'll make it worse!"

Sam nodded and lowered his hand.

"C'mon Sammy, we're almost at the top."

The eleven-year old began to climb again gritting his teeth in an effort to ignore the intense itching the rash caused.

Sam forced himself to keep his gaze on his brother, even when the itching on his skin intensified into a painful burning sensation strong enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at him every so often, his expression grim, looking as though he was starting to regret his suggestion to leave the cabin.

"D'n," Sam stammered as he reached the top of the embankment, Dean just ahead of him, and would have fallen backwards if his brother hadn't reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Ah!" Sam cried and flinched back from his brother's touch.

Looking down, he saw that the rash had turned into large, reddish-yellow blisters.

Dean instantly released him as soon as Sam was safely away from the edge of the embankment.

"C'mon, we'll get the boat and go back and…" the fifteen-year old's voice trailed off as he searched the narrow strip of beach for the rowboat.

"D'n?" Sam asked, pale beneath the rash.

"The boat," Dean muttered, "It was right here."

The older brother looked around the water and spotted the boat, floating merrily on the waves, yards away from the beach.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean apologized to his brother, "I messed up."

Sam gazed at his brother dully, the fall down the hill and the rash making his thinking slow.

Dean bit his lip, wondering how he could get his brother across the lake to the cabin where he could give him First Aid.

Suddenly, the fifteen-year old remembered the pontoon plane he'd seen. Hurrying around the bend in the island, Dean saw that the plane was still sitting on the sand.

"C'mon Sammy," Dean encouraged, "C'mon."

He returned to where his brother was approaching slowly and grabbed the front of Sam's t-shirt, tugging him the rest of the way.

"D'n," Sam muttered, "Don't feel good."

Dean nodded, "We'll be back at the cabin soon."

The elder Winchester approached the plane and stepped up onto its pontoon on the left side, grabbing the handle of its door and pulling. It opened after he gave a strong tug.

"C'mon Sammy," Dean laid a gentle hand on his brother's back to help him up, "In you go."

Sam slid over to the co-pilot's seat and stared out the window.

"Can you fly?" the eleven-year old asked.

Dean climbed into the pilot's seat and slammed the door shut, glancing uncertainly at the strange controls on the dashboard before him.

"Of course I can," Dean told his brother in a confident tone, "I'm Batman."

Sam gave a wan smile and closed his eyes.

"Okay," Dean muttered, "Think, Dean, think."

There was a large red button in the middle of the dash that looked promising. The fifteen-year old pressed down and heard the growl of the large engine start up.

Grinning, Dean peered out of the windshield at the single propeller on the nose of the plane.

"Okay," he muttered, "How about this."

He jabbed at a large green button and the propeller began to whirr, moving faster and faster and faster.

Dean couldn't help but grin at his brother, excited that he was actually able to start the plane in the first place.

Realizing that he needed to turn the plane around to face the campground, Dean put both hands on a control that looked like a steering wheel with the top and bottom half cut away. He slowly eased the wheel to the right and marveled as the plane began to turn in that direction, the pontoons splashing in the water and grinding against the sand.

As Dean watched in the windshield, the far side of the lake- the cabins and dock- slowly came into view and the fifteen-year old let out a whoop of excitement.

"Okay, Sammy," he spoke to his brother, "Let's go!"

Reaching out, Dean pulled on the steering wheel and the plane began to move forward, its pontoons just touching the water.

Dean grinned wildly as the plane shot across the water as though it was nothing. He pulled on the steering wheel even more and the nose of the plane began to lift up, the vehicle struggling to take to the air.

The fifteen-year old felt high on the adrenaline coursing through his body and in his excitement failed to notice just how fast the plane was going. Dean came to his senses just in time to realize the plane was about to run aground.

"Shit!" the fifteen-year old swore and pressed down on the steering wheel, jabbing the green button and red button with the heel of one of his hands to stop the engine and propellers.

Through the windshield Dean saw vacationers running away from the beach, screaming as though a shark was swimming towards them from the lake.

"Get out of the way!" the teen shouted, praying that he didn't hit anyone as he struggled to stop the plane.

He was jolted in his seat as the plane hit the grass and he heard his brother give a groan of pain beside him. The propellers were slowing down now, the engine silent and the scrape of pontoons against grass filled Dean's ears.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut when he realized that he was still coming on too quickly and could hit one of the cabins.

He braced himself for the impact.

There was one, but not that he expected. With a screech of metal on wood, the plane jarred to a halt, its propellers stopping abruptly as an obstacle impeded their slow spin.

The fifteen-year old opened his eyes and stared.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked quietly.

"Hmm," was the reply. At least Sam had answered him.

"Let's get out of here before anyone sees us," Dean commented and shoved his door open.

He stepped out and stood on the pontoon, waiting for his brother to follow him. He glanced behind himself, at the twin gouges the plane's pontoons had made in the sand on the beach and the grass, tearing up the turf.

After helping his brother down, Dean approached the front of the plane. He saw what had stopped the craft so effectively- it was a picnic table. It's wood cracked and splintered by the force of the collision, it had stopped the plane from continuing on to possibly damage one of the cabins however.

Quickly, keeping as low as possible, Dean hurried towards the cabin he and his family were staying in, his brother in tow.

He hoped that no one had seen them leave the scene and that it would be chalked up to some freak accident.

Dean relaxed once he and Sam were safely inside the cabin. Now he could focus on what he did best: take care of his baby brother.

W

Sam, covered in calamine lotion and swaddled in blankets, peered up at his brother sleepily.

"Dean," he said and his brother peered at him, "Yeah, Sammy."

"You're wrong," the eleven-year old said, a wry smile on his lips, "Batman can't fly."

Dean chuckled and shook his head; just happy to see his brother was starting to feel like himself again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rule comes from Reannablue. 
> 
> I don't have any idea how to fly a plane, though I have been in a small, single-engine one like the one Dean flies- though it didn't have pontoons- I am using my imagination for the plane's controls in the story and apologize for the mistakes.
> 
> If you have an idea for a 'rule' please don't hesitate to comment. Thanks!


	11. Chapter 11

Rule 11: No matter what big brother says, never just stand there and watch him fight the monster alone.

Set after Season 2, Episode 4 (Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things)

"Dean," Sam said as his brother packed the Impala, "I am not comfortable with this."

"Neither am I, Sammy," the older brother replied humourlessly.

"You know what I mean," the younger hunter complained, "I don't like you going after this thing by yourself."

"I won't be by myself," Dean argued, "You'll be with me."

Sam scowled, "Yeah, watching."

"No, Sam, that's where you're wrong," his brother replied, "You're not just watching, you're watching my back."

The older Winchester slammed the Impala's trunk shut and began walking around to the driver's side.

"Dean," Sam said as he went to the passenger's side, speaking to his brother from over the classic Chevy, "I really think I should do this. Remember the last time we killed a Rawhead?"

Dean grimaced and opened the door, climbing into the car, "Yeah, Sammy, I remember. But what are you going to do? You basically have only one arm right now."

Sam, sitting down in the passenger's seat, sighed, "I just don't feel good about this. I wish you'd let me take the risks this time."

"Well," Dean said as he turned the key in the engine and the Impala roared to life, "That's what you get for breaking your wrist."

"What's that?" Sam muttered sourly.

"Benched," Dean replied and turned on the stereo, classic rock music blaring from the speakers.

W

Sam followed Dean into the abandoned recreation center, the scent of chlorine and mold strong in the dilapidated building.

Although the center had long been left to rot, its windows boarded up, sunlight shone weakly through the cracks in the plywood, allowing the Winchesters a dim view of the interior.

Both hunters moved as quietly as possible, muscles coiled to spring at a moments notice. Rawheads, though not necessarily dangerous to adults as their favourite food was children, could still be a threat to an unwary hunter because their sharp teeth and claws could slice through their flesh just as readily as that of a kid's.

"Do you smell that?" Dean asked, wrinkling his nose.

Sam stopped and sniffed the air, trying to discern what his brother was smelling over the pungent aroma of mold and tang of old chlorine. Then, there it was, faint, but most definitely there, the sweet, earthy tones of rotting meat.

The younger Winchester looked at his sibling for a moment and Dean slipped past him, taking the lead, moving towards the area of the rec center where the pool was.

Dean reached out and pushed the door to the change rooms open, stepping inside and pulling a penlight from his pocket. Sam followed close behind him, his heartbeat beginning to pick up.

As they moved past the lockers and showers, the older Winchester paused and smirked.

"Hey, Sammy, I've never been in the women's' change room before."

The younger hunter rolled his eyes but said nothing.

Dean clicked off the penlight in his hand, pulling out a Taser instead, as the approached the open doorway that led to the pool itself.

The brothers stopped just inside the doorway, hidden by shadows, and peered across the pool area, searching for their quarry.

Sam, by virtue of his height, spied the Rawhead first. Crouched in the bottom of the empty pool, it appeared to be chewing on the femur bone of one of its young victims. The hunter felt nauseous just watching the monster. Tall, though not as tall as Sam, the Rawhead had long, stringy blond hair, deathly pale skin streaked with grime, and, if it looked up, the hunter would be able to see its near-white eyes. Its teeth were sharp, its hands and feet ending in claws instead of nails, it seemed like an almost perfect predator.

Without waiting for Dean to make his move, Sam slipped out of the doorway and walked quickly but casually along the edge of the pool, eyes pinned to the monster crouched below him.

"Sam!" he heard his brother hiss but the young man ignored him. He knew what he was doing.

"Hey asshole!" Sam shouted. The Rawhead's face lifted instantly, pale eyes going to him right away, "Why don't you try eating someone your own size?"

The creature let out an inhuman snarl of anger and began scrabbling towards him.

From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean dash out from the doorway and jump down into the bottom of the pool with the Rawhead.

There was a thin film of scummy water on the bottom of the pool, which was exactly what the hunter needed to kill the monster.

Sam felt his heart leap into his throat as Dean ran right up behind the Rawhead and began to lower the Taser in his hand. Pressing his thumb down on the button, the device crackled to life, a single line of lightning racing from prong to prong.

Dean was just a bit too slow and the Rawhead turned face the older hunter, growling with rage. Lifting a hand, the creature backhanded Dean and the hunter went sprawling, the Taser flying out of his hand to hit the side of the pool and land in the brackish water, useless.

Now no longer interested in Sam, the Rawhead, growling and slavering, turned to Dean who was disoriented from the blow and slowly picking himself up off the bottom of the pool.

"Shit," Sam muttered and ran around the side of the pool, eyes pinned to the Taser.

Jumping down into the pool, Sam was running towards the weapon before he could even gather his bearing, staggering forward but managing to snag the Taser as he did so. Moving forward, he placed himself between his brother and the Rawhead, pressing the button on the device and bringing it to life again.

"Get out of the pool, Dean," Sam said calmly, not taking his eyes off the monster in front of him.

The Rawhead watched as the elder Winchester backed away, making his way to the ladder on the far side of the pool and using it to climb out.

"You move and I'll fry us both," Sam warned, having no idea if the Rawhead understood at all.

"You can quit being a hero now, Sammy," Dean's voice called to him from the edge of the pool and the younger brother began to back away, gaze focused on the Rawhead, thumb cramping from pressing the Taser's ON button so hard.

SPN

"C'mon, c'mon, get out of there," Dean muttered to himself as he watched his brother back away from the Rawhead with agonizing slowness.

Always prepared, Dean hadn't brought just one Taser, but two, the second one he had hidden in his jacket pocket, this one the kind that fired its electrocuting projectiles instead of having to be pressed up against the object one wanted to incapacitate. Now Dean held it out, pointed at the Rawhead but he hesitated to press the trigger; if Sam were still standing in the water at the bottom of the pool when the monster was shocked, he'd be barbequed as well.

Without warning, the Rawhead in question, perhaps seeing Sam's retreat as a sign of weakness, rushed forward and leaped on the younger hunter, bringing him to the ground.

"SAM!" Dean shouted his brother's name as the Rawhead onto of his sibling suddenly began to seize uncontrollably, its growl now turning to a scream of pain.

"SAMMY!" the older brother called out again as smoke began to rise from the monster and it suddenly stopped screaming and flailing around, collapsing on top of the hunter.

"Fuck," Dean swore and hurried to the edge of the pool and jumping in, "Sam! Sammy! Are you okay?"

For a moment there was no reply and then a small voice choked out.

"Get it off me."

The older Winchester broke out into a grin and rushed to his brother's aide, shoving the smoking carcass away from him and pulling him up.

"You hurt?" Dean asked, giving his brother a visual once-over.

Sam shook his head and couldn't help but smile.

"What's so funny?" Dean asked as he pulled the Taser out of his sibling's hand and turned him around so they could use the ladder to exit the pool.

"And you just wanted me to stand by and watch."

The older Winchester scowled at his brother and watched as Sam climbed up the ladder. Dean sighed and let himself smile too.

"Hey, Sammy," he called as he started climbing up as well.

"Yeah?" the younger hunter replied, frowning at the feeling of cold, dirty water all down his back.

"Thanks for not listening to me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rule comes from HunterChic1807.
> 
> I apologize for the insanely long wait. I had major writer's block on this 'rule' and simply could not figure out what to write about.
> 
> A big thanks to mandancie for helping me with this chapter- if not for her, I'd still be scratching my head, wondering just what to write for it.
> 
> Please take a moment to leave a comment or kudos. Or, if you have a rule you'd like to see, please feel free to leave it!


	12. Chapter Twelve

Rule 12: Never go on a hunt without cleaning and oiling the guns.

"Hey, Sam! Hello! Is anybody in there?" Dean reached out and rapped his knuckles against his brother's head.

"Hey!" Sam flinched away, glaring at him.

"What?" he snapped at his older brother.

"I said it's your turn to clean the guns," Dean repeated for the third time, "I'm going out for a while. Don't wait up for me."

"Fine," Sam muttered, turning his gaze back to his laptop.

"Did you hear me?"

"Jesus! Dean! Yes, I heard you!" Sam snapped.

"What are you even doing on that thing?" Dean asked and leaned over, "Solitaire? You're playing Solitaire?"

"Would you leave me alone?" Sam asked, exasperated.

"Are you all right?" the older Winchester asked, now not so angry.

"Yeah, just go away," Sam muttered, "Go out."

Dean opened his mouth to speak again but then closed it and headed toward the motel room door. Sighing, he grabbed the Impala's keys and slipped out.

Dean knew he shouldn't give his brother such a hard time, he'd just seen his girlfriend get roasted on the ceiling of their apartment for Christ's sake, but it pissed him off to have to repeat something a half-dozen times before Sam answered him.

Whatever, Dean thought, maybe some time alone would help his brother cope or something. Since Sam didn't want to talk about his girlfriend, what was Dean supposed to do? Put a gun to his head and force him?

Unlocking the driver's side door of the Impala, Dean climbed into the classic Chevy and turned on the stereo, grimacing as Pearl Jam's 'Last Kiss' came on and decided he didn't want to listen to any music after all.

SPN

Sam sighed heavily as soon as Dean left the room, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes.

Closing his laptop, the younger Winchester picked up the remote and turned on the television, and began to flip through the channels without any real purpose.

The minutes dragged on, not that Sam noticed, and then an hour had passed, and then another hour and another.

SPN

Dean opened the door to the motel early in the morning, when the sky was still dark, and frowned at the fact that the lights were still on, the TV still playing.

Glancing to the left, he saw his brother sprawled out on his bed, eyes closed, the television remote held in one limp hand.

Smiling, glad that his brother was getting some sleep; Dean closed the door and locked it before making his way towards Sam's bed. Taking the TV remote from his brother's hand, Dean turned off the television and then the light, pulling his boots and coat off in the dark. Moving silently to his own bed, the hunter laid down, sighing before closing his eyes and drifting to sleep.

W

Groggily, Dean woke to find Sam sitting up in his own bed, typing away at his laptop.

"Ugh, what time is it?" the older brother groaned as he raised himself up on his forearms, squinting in the bright sunlight shining through the open curtains framing the smeary window.

"Seven forty-five," Sam replied without looking away from his computer.

Dean groaned again and dropped his head back onto his pillow for a moment. After a minute or two the hunter roused himself, climbing from his bed and grabbing his duffel bag, looking forward to a shower.

SPN

Sam wrinkled his nose at the smell of the Egg McMuffin Dean was scarfing down as they drove towards the Alvin D. Carter wilderness park, where a Black Dog had taken up residence, terrorizing hikers and tearing unlucky campers to shreds. As per usual, the local law enforcement and forest services deemed the attacks as a cougar or coyote or even possibly a small black bear. Dean and Sam though, had examined the victims- what was left of them at least- and knew without a doubt what they were dealing with.

Since they had hunted Black Dogs in the past, the brothers were confident they would be able to kill the monster quickly and then leave, continuing the search for their missing father.

Sam peered out the passenger side window as Dean steered the Impala with one hand, the other wrapped around his artery-clogging breakfast. There was a nagging thought at the back of his mind, as though he had forgotten something but for the life of him, Sam couldn't figure out what it was.

It was probably nothing. He hadn't been feeling himself since Jessica had died and the strange idea that he was missing something was only another symptom.

SPN

Dean crumpled the yellow paper from his McMuffin into a small ball and tossed into the backseat of the Impala to be cleaned up later.

From the corner of his eye he glanced at his brother. Sam wasn't taking care of himself and that worried him.

His sibling wasn't sleeping enough, not performing personal hygiene- Sam hadn't showered in three days- which was sending up large red flags because Dean knew his brother, as well as being a 'neat freak', was also a 'clean freak'. Sam had also refused breakfast this morning, claiming he wasn't hungry as he waited for Dean to place his order in the town's tiny McDonald's restaurant before heading out to the wilderness park.

Dean decided he wasn't going to wait and see if his brother snapped out of his funk any longer. He needed to say something, do something, whether Sam wanted to hear it or not. He couldn't go on like this; if he did he was bound to make himself ill.

But after this job was done, Dean told himself with finality; after this Black Dog is dust, I'll deal with Sammy.

W

As a result of the attacks, the park was off limits to visitors until the creature responsible was found and captured, or killed. So, instead of pulling up to the public parking area, the Winchesters found the employees' parking lot and pulled the Impala into a space.

Exiting the vehicle, Dean noticed each of the cars had a placard in the windshield, identifying them as belonging to forest services workers. The hunter shrugged; if they were ticketed they wouldn't be around long enough to pay the fine. If they were towed, they knew how to hotwire a car to take them to where they needed to be to get the Impala back.

Walking around to the back of the Chevy, Dean opened the trunk and unzipped the weapons duffel, pulling out a couple of rifles, which Sam had loaded with silver bullets the night before. Handing one gun to his brother and keeping the other for himself, Dean closed the trunk and peered at the thick wall of birch, maple, and alder in front of them.

"Let's get this over with," he commented and slung the gun over his shoulder, stepping into the woods with his brother right behind him.

W

"What time is it?" Dean asked his brother as he paused and leaned against a tree trunk.

"Ten twenty-two," Sam replied, glancing at his watch.

Dean sighed, scowling.

"Damn, where is this thing?"

Sam shrugged, looking as lost as Dean felt.

Normally Black Dogs hunted their prey at night, when their dark fur blended in with the shadows and gave them an edge when sneaking up on victims. This one in particular, was hunting hikers and campers in broad daylight- or daylight diffused by branches and leaves- which was troubling behaviour though neither brother said so out loud.

"Maybe we have to walk deeper into the forest," Sam suggested before peering down at the leaf litter at his feet, "And maybe find a trail. So the Black Dog thinks we're real hikers, you know?"

Dean sneered, "It's a Black Dog, Sam. It doesn't think."

Sam just shrugged and continued onward.

The older brother sighed and followed his sibling.

SPN

"Damn it!" Dean swore loudly, scaring a flock of birds out of the trees, "We've been walking all friggin' day and still nothing!"

The hunter was in a foul mood. His feet were sore, his legs were tired and he was hungry. Dean didn't want to admit it but he was afraid that maybe they had been wrong and that this wasn't a Black Dog they were hunting after all. Maybe it really was just a cougar or coyote.

Sam looked at a loss for words.

"Let's start heading back," Dean grumbled, "Get something to eat and then come back when it's dark. Maybe than this thing will show itself."

Sam said nothing but followed his sibling as Dean began stomping through the trees the way they had come.

SPN

Dean had rarely felt so frustrated. A Black Dog hunt was supposed to be easy, a run-of-the-mill kind of deal. But now it seemed as though they were just looking for a needle in a haystack, a needle that may or may not even be there.

Although Sam didn't say it, Dean knew he felt the same. Maybe they had been wrong about this one. It wouldn't be the first time and certainly wouldn't be the last but the bitch of it was the fact that they had spent the entire day traipsing through some random forest when they could have been searching for their Dad.

The sky was growing dark now that the sun was setting, no longer a bright, clear blue but a deep violet colour. Shadows had begun to darken and lengthen, making walking more treacherous with hidden roots and rocks. The elder Winchester was silently kicking himself for not thinking to bring any flashlights. All they had were the lights on their cell phones. Dean didn't think they'd make it to the Impala before night fell.

"Hey, Sammy-" Dean began to tell his brother they should pick up the pace when a shadow dethatched from its surroundings and pounced on his sibling.

Sam, unprepared for the assault, lost his footing and staggered to one side, slamming into the side of a large oak tree as the weight of the Black Dog bore down on him.

"SAMMY!" Dean shouted as his sibling struggled to push the monster off his chest. The Black Dog had a mouthful of his jacket in its jaws and its sharp-clawed toes scratched against his abdomen cruelly.

Sliding his rifle off his shoulder, Dean allowed his training to take over, and, working basically on autopilot, fired a single shot at the Black Dog.

There was no response. The gun would not fire but issued a dull click.

Dean stared at the weapon for a moment, dumbfounded.

"DEAN!" Sam cried out as he lost his footing in the soft loam at the base of the oak tree and fell onto his back, the Black Dog taking advantage of his prone position to release its hold on his jacket to snap at his face.

"DEAN!"

Dean raised the gun again and tried to fire a second shot.

Click.

Now that it was obvious that the rifle wasn't going to work, Dean began to panic.

Sam had his arm raised to protect his face, the Black Dog's jaws clamped tightly to the limb, shredding his jacket and drawing blood.

"D'n," Sam said, quickly losing energy as his arm lowered a half an inch toward his face, brining the Black Dog's slavering jaws closer to that vulnerable flesh.

Think! Dean demanded of himself, frantically.

The coppery tang of blood was in the air and Dean knew he didn't have much time to decide on a plan of action. Sam couldn't hold the Black Dog off for much longer.

The elder Winchester's hands tightened around the gun and suddenly he knew what to do. Moving his grip down to the barrel of the rifle, he raised the butt of the gun up like a baseball bat and took the three or so feet to his brother at a run.

Despite the darkness, he could see his brother's pale face peering out from underneath the large dark mass that was the Black Dog. Winding up, as though about to hit a home run, Dean brought the butt of the rifle down on the back of the Black Dog's head.

The monster released its hold on Sam's arm and screamed a high-pitched shriek that made the blood in both hunters go cold. Not satisfied, Dean cracked it across the head again, and again, and again, not even caring if he hit his brother in the process he was too full of adrenaline and fear and anger to be worried about that triviality.

"Dean!"

"DEAN!"

"DEAN! STOP!"

Sam's breathless cries brought the older hunter back to reality and he dropped the gun.

"Sam? Sammy, shit! Sammy are you okay?" Dean dropped to his knees beside his fallen sibling, shoving the heavy body of the Black Dog off his brother's chest, its head a sticky mess of fur, brains and bone.

"Are you okay?" Dean asked, which was stupid, he'd seem Sam's arm being used as a chew toy, so he added, "Did I hit you?"

Sam shook his head and Dean reached out to help him sit up. It was almost completely dark out now so the older brother grabbed his phone from his pocket and used the Flashlight on it to illuminate his sibling.

Sam's face was pale and had small scratches across his cheeks and chin, pinprick of blood seeping from them; his right arm was covered in the torn remains of his jacket, blood dripping steadily from the wounded appendage. His shirt was in tatters, the Black Dog's claws having dug out deep gouges in his chest and abdomen.

"I'll live," Sam ground out, "Help me up."

Reaching out to take his brother's uninjured arm, Dean pulled his brother to his feet.

Sam swayed for a moment but than gained his balance. His eyes had a bit of a glassy look but Dean wasn't too worried. He was sure they'd be able to make it to the car before his sibling passed out, if that was what he was going to do.

With one hand on his brother's arm, he reached down and picked up his rifle and Sam's.

"Why didn't they work?" the younger man asked, his words slurring slightly.

Maybe Sam had hit his head when he'd slammed into the tree, Dean wondered.

"I don't know," he answered, "You cleaned and oiled them last, you tell me."

Sam blinked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, and than a look of realization momentarily took away the glassiness from his gaze.

"Sam? What is it?" Dean asked, his heart skipping a beat because maybe his brother was hurt worse than he'd thought.

"What's wrong?" he repeated.

"I…" Sam hesitated and licked his lips, drawing his injured right arm protectively to his chest, "I… didn't, Dean. I forgot to clean the guns last night."

The first thing Dean felt was anger. He had explicitly told Sam to clean and oil the guns and Sam had agreed to do it. But then Dean looked at his brother's face, really looked at it, seeing the pale skin, purple circles beneath watery eyes, the tightness of the muscles that told him his sibling was in pain.

Letting out a long breath, Dean released his anger.

"It's okay, these things happen," he assured his brother, "Let's just worry about getting you patched up."

Sam stared at Dean with a look of disbelief; clearly he had been prepared to have his head bitten off.

"Oh… Okay," the younger brother muttered and allowed Dean to guide him across the hidden obstacles on the forest floor.

Dean said no more about the rifles. He knew he could, he knew he should lecture Sam on how dangerous and irresponsible he had been, just like their father would have done had he been with them, but decided that almost getting mauled to death by a Black Dog was enough.

He was certain Sam would never forget to clean the guns again.

And Dean reminded himself not to be so hard on his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a moment to leave Kudos or a Comment.
> 
> Please leave a 'rule' if you'd like to see one.


	13. Chapter 13

Rule Number 13: Never leave the Impala unlocked while going on a hunt

The vampire's head came away from its shoulders with wet schick sound as Dean's machete tore through muscle, bone and ligaments like they were made of butter.

"Sammy!" the hunter called to his sibling, unable to see the younger man but needing to make sure he was all right.

"Here!" his brother's voice cried a reply from deep inside the old farmhouse.

Dean grinned toothily and continued to slice and dice his way through the nest of bloodsuckers, adrenaline pumping through his veins and his heart pounding in response.

W

Heaving a deep breath, the hunter wiped his arm across his forehead and looked at the carnage he and his brother had wrought.

"Man, that was a workout," Dean muttered as he took in the bloodstained floor and walls, the decapitated corpses strewn around the farmhouse like props in a horror movie.

Sam nodded, his expression grim, sweat and blood dripping from his long hair.

"That's all of 'em?" Dean asked his sibling, stepping over a head no longer attached to a body.

"I think so," Sam replied and raked his bangs back from his brow with one hand, "It was a big nest."

Dean made a sound of agreement.

"Biggest I've ever seen," he added.

"Let's torch the place and then get out of here," Dean announced, "There's a long, hot shower back at the motel calling my name."

Exiting the farmhouse- careful to avoid slipping in the blood and stepping on the bodies- the brothers stepped out onto the wooden porch where they had left a can of gasoline waiting. Handing Sam his machete, Dean fished in his pocket for a book of matches.

As he waited for his sibling, Sam frowned and peered out at the field surrounding the farm. The crop, so yellowed and dry it was impossible to tell what it was, lay flat and brittle against the ground. The sky overhead grey with clouds, promising rain that would do nothing to quench the thirsty, forgotten crops.

Quickly, Dean splashed gasoline through the open doorway of the farm and onto the porch. Once that was finished, he and Sam stepped down onto the front lawn and he pulled a match from the pack, struck it and tossed it onto the porch.

Within seconds the old wood was burning, the flames traveling quickly to the interior of the building.

"C'mon Sammy," Dean took his brother's machete and held his brother's arm, guiding him down the dirt driveway to where the Impala was parked.

Sam opened his door and climbed into the passenger's seat while Dean tossed the machetes and can of gas into the trunk, slamming the lid before walking around to the front of the vehicle and climbing into the driver's seat.

Key in the ignition, Dean pulled out of the driveway, glancing in the rearview mirror to see the farmhouse now a ball of orange fire and smiled.

Sam leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

"Hey Sam," Dean spoke up, "Why don't you take first shower?"

The younger man didn't argue, "Okay, Dean. Thanks."

"No problem," Dean brushed off his act of generosity as though it was something he always did, "Maybe when we're done cleaning up we can get something for din-"

The elder Winchester's words were suddenly cut off when a figure rose up from the backseat of the Impala, its hands grabbing onto his sibling.

Sam let out a strangled cry as he felt strong hands claw at him, one racking its nails across his throat before finding purchase on his shoulder while the other twined its long fingers into his hair.

"SAM!" Dean shouted and slammed on the breaks, forcing the Impala to stop suddenly.

The vampire was thrown forward against the back of Sam's seat but she did not release her hold on the hunter, if anything, the jolt allowed her to tighten her grip.

Sam's eyes were wide and panicked, his hands grabbing at the vampire's fingers clamped onto his shoulder, trying to pry her away.

"Hey bitch!" Dean snarled and for a moment the vampire turned to face the older hunter.

It was a mistake she'd live to regret.

Dean slammed his fist into her nose, breaking it on contact and forcing her backwards. The vampire lost her grip on Sam's shoulder and slumped forward, barely conscious.

Well aware he didn't have much time, the elder Winchester shoved open his door and dashed around the front of the idling Impala to his brother's side, opening not Sam's door, but the rear passenger side door.

Grabbing the vampire roughly by both arms, Dean dragged her from the Impala, pausing only briefly to yank at her hand where her fingers were tangled in his brother's hair and puling out a good chunk of chestnut locks as he did so.

Sam, now freed from the vampire's grip, pushed his door open and staggered out of the car, one hand pressed against his bleeding neck.

"Make sure she doesn't get up," Dean instructed and unceremoniously dumped the vampire on the ground beside the car before grabbing his keys from the ignition and unlocking the trunk.

Sam watched as the vampire began to rouse, rising up on her hands and knees, eyes locked on his.

"Dean, hurry up!" he called as the vampire attempted to stand up.

Before the monster could attack the younger Winchester for a second time, her head was detached from her body, rolling across the dust ground to bump against Sam's boots.

"Shit," Dean growled.

"Yeah," Sam muttered.

Dean lifted his gaze to his brother's face and fear suddenly coursed icily through his body.

"She didn't bite you, did she?"

Sam shook his head, "I don't think so."

"Let me see," Dean said and stepped over the vampire's body, pulling his brother's hand away from his throat so he could assess the damage.

"Nah, just clawed you," the older brother confirmed and smiled, "We'll have to put iodine on that when we get back."

Sam wiped his bloodied hand on his blood-streaked shirt, "Good idea."

Tossing the machete back into the trunk, Dean once again closed the lid before settling into position in the driver's seat. Sam took a moment to peer into the backseat before closing the rear door.

"You coming, Sammy?"

"Yeah," the younger sibling replied and sat down beside his brother, slamming the door shut.

As Dean started the engine, eager to be off, Sam spoke.

"How did she get in?"

Dean paused, his hand still on his keys and suddenly turned an alarming shade of red.

"Dean? Are you okay?" Sam asked, concern in his voice.

"Uh…Yeah, Sammy," he coughed, "I'm fine."

The younger hunter eyed his brother suspiciously.

"I didn't lock the car," Dean admitted, "I thought it would give us a faster getaway if I didn't."

Sam said nothing for a moment.

"I didn't even think anyone would slip past us," Dean continued, "This has never happened before."

"I guess there's a first for everything," Sam muttered humorlessly.

"Next time I'll lock the car," Dean assured his brother.

"Next time you'll lock the car," Sam agreed, sighing and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the back of his seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a moment to leave Kudos or an idea for a 'rule' if you have one!


	14. Chapter 14

Rule 14: Never go hunting while drunk

"Dean, are you sure you'll be okay?" Sam asked for the seventh time, irritating his sibling.

"I'm fine, Sammy," the older hunter growled, slurring his words slightly.

"I can do this on my own," the younger sibling suggested.

"No way!" Dean exclaimed loudly, "Knowing you, you'd probably get into… into trouble and need me to bail you out."

Sam frowned, watching the road winding ahead of them nervously.

"Like always," Dean added with a smug grin.

The younger sibling decided to let that one go. Dean wouldn't remember saying it in the morning anyway. If they made it to morning.

"I really wish you'd stayed at the motel," Sam muttered as Dean pulled the Impala into the cemetery, nearly scraping the right side of the vehicle against the wrought-iron gate as he did so.

"Oh come on, Sam! I only had a couple of beers, I'm fine," Dean insisted as the Impala bumped over something, probably a gravestone.

The elder Winchester put on the brakes and pulled the key from the ignition.

"Let's go roast this ghost," he said and then laughed at the rhyme.

Sam rolled his eyes and climbed out of the vehicle, "Let's just get this over with before you get us killed."

Walking to the back of the car, Dean unlocked the trunk but before he could reach inside, Sam had already grabbed the shotguns.

"You grab the salt and gas," he told Dean.

The older man pouted, "I need a gun."

Sam smiled, "Not until you've sobered up."

"I am sober," Dean insisted and grabbed a gun from his brother.

"Fine," Sam sighed, "Just point it at the ground so you don't shoot yourself by accident."

"I know how to hold a gun, Sam," Dean snapped, "I'm not stup-"

BANG!

The loud blast startled both Winchesters, both men freezing for a split second before the younger of the two reacted.

Sam's face transformed into a mask of pain and he let out a strangled cry, lifting his left foot from the ground, blood dripping from the injured appendage.

Dean's face turned white as he stared down at the damage he'd inflicted. His brother's boot was torn to shreds, blood, gunpowder and salt residue coating what remained.

"Sam!" he shouted, reaching out to steady his sibling, "Sammy! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

The younger hunter narrowed his eyes, saying nothing.

"We'll go to the hospital," Dean told his brother, almost yelling, trying not to panic.

Even though the shotguns had been filled with rock salt and not buckshot, they could still seriously injure the living if fired at close range.

Dean, rapidly sobering, wrapped one arm around his brother's shoulders and helped Sam hobble back to the Impala, flung open the passenger's side door and eased his sibling into the seat as gently as possible.

Bending down, the older Winchester carefully picked up his brother's ankle and brought Sam's foot up to rest on the dashboard in an attempt to keep the limb above his heart.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean murmured as he closed the door, grabbed the guns, can of gas and salt, dumped them all back into the trunk and hurried to the front of the vehicle.

Dropping down into the driver's seat, Dean turned the key in the Impala's ignition so quickly he nearly stalled the engine.

Glancing at his brother, he didn't like how pale and quiet his brother was. He could hear the steady drip, drip, drip of blood falling onto the mat on the floor.

"It'll be okay, Sammy," Dean said, "We'll get you fixed up."

The eldest Winchester pulled a U-turn and sped out of the cemetery, promising that he would never, ever go hunting after drinking again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt comes from AnitaRez and LeeMarieJack, who both had the same idea.  
> Please take a moment to leave Kudos, a Comment, or an idea for a 'rule' if you have one you'd like to see!


	15. Chapter 15

Rule 15: Don't hunt if you're allergic to what you're hunting

"So you're saying you have a… um… double homicide on your hands, Sheriff?" Dean asked as he and Sam, posing as FBI, met with the sheriff of the small community of Green Lake, Wisconsin.

"We have crabs," Sheriff Richardson told them grimly.

"Crabs?" Dean asked, laughter bubbling up which he quickly squelched and turned into a cough.

The sheriff looked at him curiously, "Are you all right, Agent Keifer?"

Dean nodded, one fist in front of his mouth as he pretended to cough.

"Sheriff Richardson," Sam took over for his brother, "You said you have three dead bodies in the morgue. What does this have to do with crabs?"

"Honestly Agents, I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it myself," the sheriff shook his head and sat down behind his desk.

"Our town was named after the lake we sit beside," he continued, "And for years no one has ever seen anything bigger than a Canada goose in it."

Sam frowned, motioning with one hand for the sheriff to continue.

"Up until last week, our biggest problem was the beavers."

Dean snorted again but once more began to cough. The Sheriff turned to peer at him suspiciously.

"What did you see?" Sam asked quickly, glaring daggers at his immature sibling.

"When we were called to investigate those two kids, we saw… crabs... as big as car tires… eating… eating the bodies."

Sam frowned, "Are you sure you saw… crabs?"

The sheriff nodded, "Yes, indeed. My deputy even shot one. We brought it here, hoping the coroner would be able to do something with it."

"Is this a problem for us or should we call PETA?" Dean asked, trying to keep from smiling.

"Can we see it?" Sam asked before the sheriff could answer Dean's question, "And the bodies?"

"Of course, Agent," Sheriff Richardson told him, reaching for the phone on his desk, "I'll call Dr. Brittingham right now and let her know you are on your way."

As the sheriff spoke with the coroner, Sam eyed his brother wondering if this was a case for them and not the Environmental Protection Agency. Dean seemed to have pulled himself together and shrugged slightly.

"Okay, Agents," Sheriff Richardson drew the brothers' attention, "Dr. Brittingham would love to have you come by and give your opinion on the matter."

"Thank you, Sheriff," Sam said, "Hopefully we can help."

The Winchesters shook hands with the Sheriff before leaving and climbing into the Impala parked out front of the police station.

As soon as they were settled, Sam turned to his brother, "What are you, Dean, five year old?"

"Oh come on, Sam," the older sibling, groaned, "You have to admit you were trying not to laugh."

Sam just glowered at him for a moment before muttering, "Grow up."

Dean scowled, "Who spit in your salad?"

W

The drive to the coroner's office, located in the basement of the town's tiny hospital, took no time at all and within minutes Sam and Dean were standing in front of the bodies of sixteen-year old Chelsea Rothstein and her boyfriend, eighteen-year old Mason Williams. Both bodies were pale white in death, slightly bloated, and covered with open wounds revealing pink, red and purple viscera.

"Did they die as a result of their injuries?" Sam asked the coroner.

Dr. Brittingham shook her head, "The injuries you can see occurred post-mortem."

"So, what killed them?" Dean asked.

"They both drowned," the coroner answered.

The hunters both looked at the woman confused.

Sam frowned, "But they were found on the beach, not in the water."

"Can we see the, uh, specimen?" Dean asked and the coroner nodded, moving to the third table and moved aside the white cloth covering the crab.

Both Sam and Dean stared down at the crustacean that, other than being unusually large, appeared to be a regular crab.

Dean, grabbing a pair of latex gloves from the box sitting on the table, pulled them on and turned the specimen over onto its back.

"What do you think, Sam? Could one of these, or maybe even two or three, drag a couple of teenagers into the lake and drown them?"

"I guess it's possible," the younger man agreed, "But normally crabs don't work as a team. And they don't kill, they're generally scavengers by nature."

Dean looked up at him, lifting one of the crab's large claws in his hand, "Maybe they got tired of eating the leftovers."

The coroner listened to the conversation, frowning.

"I think that the teens drowned in the lake, washed up on shore and then were scavenged by the crabs," she told the agents.

"Dr. Brittingham, is there anything around here that would cause mutations in the animals living near the lake?" Sam asked.

This entire case made him queasy. Crabs should not be growing to the size of car tires, and they certainly didn't live in fresh water. The only crustaceans he knew to live in lakes were crayfish and they only grew to be between four and thirteen centimeters. Nowhere large enough to do any serious damage to a human.

"There's a nuclear power plant on the other side of the lake, Agent LaBar, but it's been abandoned for years," the coroner answered.

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

"Thank you, Doctor," Sam told her, "You've been very helpful."

The coroner nodded faintly and the brothers took their leave.

"So what is this?" Dean asked his brother as they left the hospital, "Are we looking at killer crabs or Jason Voorhees?"

Sam shook his head, "I don't know, but I'd like to take a look at that power plant."

W

"I can practically feel my insides melting," Dean complained as he and his brother walked carefully through the disused nuclear power plant.

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes.

"We'll be fine," he assured his sibling, "It looks like they closed everything down properly. You're not going to get radiation poisoning."

Dean sniffed and looked at his brother incredulously.

"I don't think we'll find anything," Sam continued, "There's no history of accidents or spills."

"Good, we can leave," his sibling turned abruptly around.

"Why are you in such a hurry to leave?" Sam asked.

"This place creeps me out," Dean snapped, "And I don't feel like turning into a mutant or something gross like from the Chernobyl Diaries."

The younger hunter sighed and followed his brother's lead.

"Why aren't you in a hurry?" Dean asked curiously.

Sam shrugged, avoiding the question.

"It's because of those crabs, isn't it?" Dean asked, a smile forming on his lips, "Isn't it?"

"No," Sam replied quickly, too quickly and knew he'd just given away the real reason he was hesitant to stake out the beach where the kids' bodies had been found.

"C'mon Sammy, no one's asking you to eat one!" Dean crowed, "Though I wonder what they'd taste like."

Sam hunched his shoulders and didn't answer.

"Let's just get out of here," he muttered, "I'm feeling kind of dizzy."

"Oh, no you don't!" Dean insisted, "You said it yourself that this place isn't dangerous!"

Sam picked up his pace; flashlight held tightly in his fist and didn't rise to his brother's bait.

"Sam? Sammy, c'mon, I'm sorry," Dean called after him, jogging to keep up, "It's not funny."

The elder Winchester knew exactly what his brother was thinking about and actually felt bad. It hadn't been funny at the time, either; he'd been terrified his little brother was going to die.

He'd never seen anyone go into anaphylactic shock so fast and he hoped never to do so again.

All because John hadn't been thinking and had ordered a Fillet-O-Fish for his youngest son.

That was when they found out just how deathly ill Sam would become if he ate seafood, any seafood, fish or shellfish. That was why the younger man mostly ate salad; he was terrified of eating something that may have touched seafood. He had an EpiPen with him at all time but thankful hadn't had to use it.

Catching up to his sibling, Dean reached out and placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, stopping his progress.

"Why don't you sit this one out?"

Sam shook his head, "You're right Dean, we're just going to kill the crabs, not eat them with butter and lemon."

Dean didn't smile at his brother's attempt at a joke.

"Okay," he muttered and let go of his sibling's shoulder, "If you're sure."

Sam nodded, "I am."

W

Dean glanced over at his brother for the nth time, biting his cheek to keep from suggesting Sam go back to the motel and let him take care of the crabs.

The elder hunter zipped his jacket up and peered out at the lake, quiet in the gathering darkness.

Sam had insisted they investigate the lake a night because crabs were generally more active when the sun went down.

"Coffee?" Dean asked his sibling, holding out the Thermos mug full of hot java to Sam.

The younger man shook his head, eyes fixed on the lake.

Time seemed to drag on, and it didn't take long before both brothers were cold and chilled to the bone with the damp air coming in off the lake.

Sam in particular, was shivering but trying not to show it.

"Do you have any coffee left?" he asked Dean hopefully.

The older brother shook his head, holding the Thermos container upside down to allow two drips of coffee to land in the sand.

Wondering if perhaps the sheriff and the coroner had been mistaken and the giant crab in the morgue was just some fluke, some freak of nature, Dean was about to suggest they head back to the motel when movement at the edge of the lake caught his eye.

Crawling slowly up out of the water on armored legs was a crab as big around as a car's tire.

"Shit," Dean breathed, sitting up straighter.

Sam reached out and grabbed the shotgun he had brought, fingers tightening around the cold metal barrel.

The crab scurried up onto the sand, making a hissing sound as its stalk eyes swiveled, and moved closer and closer to the hunters.

Splashing and plopping sounds drew the brothers' attention away from the single crab on the beach to see the water writhing and bubbling with dozens of crustaceans all climbing from the waves.

"Shit," Dean repeated, louder now.

BANG!

The hunter jumped as Sam fired his shotgun, the first crab that had made it to land exploding in a spray of pink flesh and brown carapace, entrails scattering on the sand. The crabs just making their way from the lake, hissed and clacked their claws, rushing forward to scoop the remains of their comrade into their greedy mouths.

"I don't that shotgun's gonna be enough, Sammy," Dean commented, eyeing the army of crabs still crawling up the beach towards them.

Sam nodded, looking more than a little nauseous but Dean smiled.

Reaching down to the sand beside him, the elder Winchester picked up the one weapon he had always wanted to use but never got the chance- John's rocket launcher.

"Wait," Sam cautioned, raising one hand, "Wait until they're almost on top of us."

Dean glanced at his brother, "You sure?"

Sam nodded.

Dean rested the weapon on his shoulder, watching carefully as the crabs drew closer and closer.

The older hunter wanted nothing more than to blow the creepy crustaceans to smithereens but he trusted his brother's judgment and waited as the crabs marched ever closer towards them.

Suddenly one of the crabs hissed loudly, claws clicking, and leaped at Sam.

"DEAN!" Sam shouted and the older Winchester stood, pointed the rocket launcher at the middle of the army of crabs and fired.

The force of the weapon knocked Dean off his feet and onto his backside, hard, and he swore out loud, though he couldn't hear his own voice for the ringing in his ears.

Rolling onto his hands and knees, he searched the beach for his brother and caught sight of Sam crouching in the sand, holding his wrist as his hand bled from a gash in the fleshy part between thumb and forefinger, the skin split clean through.

SAM! Dean shouted, his words falling on his own deaf ears.

His brother, whether he could hear him or through some instinct knew he was calling, turned his head to look at him and smiled.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief and saw that the crab that had jumped at his brother lay in the sand, its shell cracked down the middle and oozing green goo.

Raising his gaze to the lake, Dean saw that chunks of shell and limbs lay in a deep crater in the sand, the crabs that had escaped the blast running as fast as their legs could carry them back to the water.

Standing, grabbing the rocket launcher in one hand and his brother's uninjured wrist in the other, Dean pulled Sam to his feet and they slowly made their way back to the Impala.

SPN

Dean gulped down the last of his beer and grinned at Jody.

"That is not what happened," she said incredulously, eyeing Dean suspiciously.

"Sure it did," Dean insisted, "Hey Sammy! Come over here and show Jody your hand!"

Obediently, the younger Winchester walked into the kitchen where his brother and the sheriff were sitting and showed off the white scar bisecting the web of skin between his right thumb and index finger.

Jody shook her head and laughed, "You two."

Sam looked to Dean; the older brother chuckling and winking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt comes from AnitaRez.  
> Please leave Kudos or a 'rule'.


	16. Chapter 16

Rule 16: When you forget your lighter, rubbing two sticks together is not always an option

"Dean."

Sam's voice grated on his sibling's nerves and the older hunter said nothing, continuing with what he was doing.

"Dean."

Sam tried again, and again, Dean ignored him, gripping the two sticks tightly in his fists, blinking icy rain out of his eyes.

"Dean."

"What?" the older sibling snapped, lifting his head and glaring angrily at his brother.

"That's not going to work," Sam told him, hugging himself to try and conserve body heat, his long hair plastered to his skull, water dripping off his nose and chin.

"Damn it, Sam!" Dean snarled, throwing the sticks at his brother, "At least I'm trying something!"

The younger man's hazel eyes widened in shock and he took a couple of steps back, away from his brother.

Then, he too grew angry and snarled back at Dean just as nastily, "I wasn't the one who forgot to bring his lighter, Dean!"

The older Winchester opened his mouth, a snide remark about to escape, when Sam turned on his heel and began walking away from him, slapping sopping branches away from his face as he stalked through the woods.

"SAM!" Dean shouted aggressively, "COME BACK! SAM!"

The younger man didn't respond and continued to stomp through the woods.

"Sam!" Dean called again; now that his brother was out of his sight his anger was waning, quickly becoming replaced by concern, "Sammy!"

"Aaaaggghh!"

The unmistakable cry of pain sent Dean bolting up, dashing through the trees in the direction his brother had gone.

"Sam? Sammy? Answer me!"

Dean's heart began to pound in his chest. Where was his brother? Had the Wendigo they were supposed to be hunting got him?

"SAMMY!"

"D'n," his brother's reply seemed like the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

"Sammy, where are you?" Dean called, scanning the trees surrounding him.

"H're," Sam called, pain making his voice weak.

The older hunter continued on his forward trajectory for a few more feet before spotting his brother sitting on the ground, his left leg caught in a bear trap.

"Shit," Dean swore, "Sammy, what did you do?"

The elder Winchester crouched down beside his sibling and examined the sharp metal teeth of the trap clamped firmly around Sam's ankle.

"Stepped into a bear trap," the younger man answered sarcastically but all the anger had gone from his voice too.

"Should have known these things would be around," Dean said, "The Rangers said they thought a bear or mountain lion was killing those campers."

Sam nodded, his fingers white as he gripped his calf above the bear trap.

"Let me think," Dean said and his gaze followed the chain at the back of the traps metal jaws across the leaf strewn forest floor to the base of a thick oak tree. The chain had been wrapped around the trunk twice and secured with a padlock.

Even if he could open the lock, it would be a bitch to drag that length of chain through the woods, especially with an injured leg.

"Just open the trap," Sam insisted, gritting his teeth.

"If I do that you'll bleed everywhere," Dean argued, "And attract the Wendigo."

"Good," Sam growled, "The faster we kill it the faster you can take me to a hospital."

Dean hesitated, but only for a moment, before kneeling down and gripping the jaws of the bear trap in his hands, pulling them as far apart as he could.

Sam just managed to pull his leg through the jaws of the trap before Dean released them and they snapped closed again with a metallic tang sound.

"Let me see," Dean insisted and reached out, pulling the leg of Sam's pants up to assess the damage.

Hissing in sympathy, Dean knew his brother was right- Band Aids and gauze were not going to fix this- he needed to see a doctor, a real professional with a needle and thread.

"Can you stand?" Dean asked and stood himself, grabbing one of Sam's hands and pulling him up.

The younger hunter clenched his teeth and favoured his left leg but at least he was upright.

Dean put his sibling's right arm across his shoulders and began to walk forward slowly, "Let me know if I'm going too fast."

Sam nodded, his face pale and damp with sweat mixed with rain.

The brothers inched forward a few feet, painfully slow, but Dean didn't dare push his sibling to move faster. Blood had soaked through Sam's sock and the cuff of his pant leg, its coppery scent mixing with the pungent aroma of rain and loam.

They had barely made it a hundred feet before Dean stopped- the sounds of low grunting and leaf litter crunching coming from behind them raising the hairs on the back of the hunter's neck.

Turning only his head, so he wouldn't hurt his sibling, Dean's heart skipped a beat at the sight of the large black bear staring at them with rheumy brown eyes.

"Dean? What is it?" Sam whispered, "The Wendigo?"

The older brother shook his head, his left hand sliding silently into the pocket of his leather jacket for his gun.

"What?" Sam asked and turned his head to look.

The black bear sat back on its haunches and sniffed the air, attracted by the scent of Sam's blood.

Dean, almost holding his breath, pulled the hammer back on his pistol and suddenly turned his left, dragging his brother around with him and fired a single shot at the bear's head.

The animal roared with pain and stood up, all seven feet towering over the hunters, rage in its eyes.

Realizing he'd made a horrible mistake, Dean started running, pulling his brother along with him.

The hunter's heart was pounding in his chest; he could hear Sam staggering and swearing beside him, hear the heavy breathing and snarling of the bear behind him.

Dean knew they could not outrun the bear, not even on a good day, and with Sam injured, it was only a matter of time before he fell and they both ended up mauled to death.

BANG!

The sound of a gun going off startled the hunter and Dean ducked, nearly landing on his face as he did so. Sam, already unbalanced on his injured leg, did fall, landing on his knees in the muddy leaves.

Dean stumbled to a stop, frantically scanning the trees behind his sibling, and grabbed his brother's jacket, silently urging Sam to get up.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Three more shots rang out and suddenly the forest was silent but for the dripping of rainwater from the leaves and branches and the harsh breathing of the frightened brothers.

"Hey! Hey! Do you need help?" a voice called and once Dean had caught his breath, answered.

"Yeah! My brother's hurt!"

With a rustling of tree branches, a Park Ranger, clad in khaki uniform and olive green jacket appeared, holding a rifle in one hand. The man didn't look pleased but Dean couldn't have been happier to see him.

"You two are damn lucky," the Ranger said, "You two were seconds away from becoming bear chow."

"We know," Dean commented, "Thanks for saving us."

The Ranger inclined his head, "What are you doing here anyway? The park is supposed to be closed."

"We were… hiking," Dean replied, "Yeah, we wanted to go for a hike."

The Ranger raised an eyebrow over his Smokey Bear sunglasses, "In the rain?"

Dean grinned and nudged his brother, "It was his idea."

The radio attached to the Ranger's shoulder crackled to life and the man spoke into it, "I've got two civilians, one injured, requiring an ambulance."

The person on the other end responded in the affirmative and the Ranger returned his attention to the brothers.

"Can you walk?" he asked, addressing Sam.

The younger Winchester nodded and with Dean's assistance, stood up again.

"Follow me," the Ranger instructed and began making his way through the woods.

W

"Hey Sammy?" Dean said, hunched over in the back of the ambulance while his sibling lay on a stretcher, Paramedics performing preliminary First Aid on his leg.

"Yeah Dean," Sam muttered, feeling slightly better now that he was out of the cold and rain, on his way to the hospital.

"Remind me never to forget my lighter," Dean grinned cheekily and Sam closed his eyes.

"Screw you," he muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt comes from missingmikey.  
> Aw poor Sam, all because Dean forgot his lighter.  
> Please feel free to leave Kudos or a 'rule' if you have an idea for one.


	17. Chapter 17

Rule 17: It's sometimes impossible to convince civilians that hunks and monsters are not part of a reality prank show for TV

Shit, Dean thought as soon as he saw the three teenage girls making a beeline towards him and his brother, smiles plastered onto faces plastered with makeup.

"Ladies," Dean greeted, his expression professional as he pulled out his fake FBI badge and flashed it at the grinning trio.

"I'm Agent Englund and this is my partner, Agent Gillette," Dean told the girls, "We're in the middle of an investigation and-"

"You're too cute to be FBI agents," one girl, who seemed to be the leader, interrupted.

"-And you'll need to leave," Sam finished for his brother, "For your own safety."

"How did you even get in here?" Dean asked, eyeing the girls with a certain suspicion.

One of the girls, who was currently applying cotton candy coloured gloss onto her already shiny lips, shrugged, "There's a back door. We're not stupid."

Dean looked at his brother, "There's a back door."

"Look, you really can't be here," Sam insisted, spreading his arms with the idea of shepherding the teens back the way they had come, "You could get hurt."

The third girl, who couldn't seem to stop giggling, reached out and squeezed Sam's bicep.

"You guys can't be FBI agents," the leader repeated.

"I know what this is!" Cotton candy girl shrieked suddenly, excited, "This is one of those reality TV shows, isn't it? You two are actors hired to scare us!"

"No, we're-" Sam tried, giving Dean a helpless expression as he was interrupted.

"Who's in on it? Is it Tammy? Or Brad?" the girl who had touched Sam's arm, asked, "I bet it was one of them."

The girl stared around the room and seemed to find something she thought was a camera; she pursed her lips and lifted both hands to show her middle fingers, "We know this is a joke, bitch!"

"Oh my God," Dean muttered.

"What show are we on?" the girl with the pink lip gloss, whose name happened to be Ashley, asked, "We know we're on one so you can fess up."

"I bet it's Trick'd," the lead girl, Maggie told her friends with certainty.

"No way, Mags," the third teen argued, "Randi Rocket would never have ghosts on her show, it has to be Faces of Fear."

"Okay," Dean interrupted, "This is getting out of hand. You all need to leave. Now."

"Can we get selfies with you?" the girl closest to Sam asked and before the hunter could stop her, she had snapped a photo of him with her cellphone as she leaned against his chest.

"Fun's over," Dean announced, "You three need to leave."

"Aww," the girls groaned in unison.

Sam slid his hand into the pocket of his suit jacket, fingers tightly gripping the iron rod inside.

"Time to go," Dean commanded but before he could force the girls to leave, the spirit the hunters had been looking for, appeared.

The ghost was a teenager, not much younger than the three living girls, and would have fit in nicely with the group, dressed in black leggings, pink Uggs, and silver t-shirt studded with sequins in the shape of Justin Beiber's face.

The ghost would have looked like a normal girl, if not for the cracked cell phone she held in one hand and the kitchen knife in the other, blood dripping onto the floor from her slashed wrists.

The ghost, a girl who had gone to the same high school as these living girls, had killed herself after receiving cruel comments after posting a selfie had been murdering students who dared to be so vain as to post pictures of themselves on social media, begging for attention.

Before the ghost could attack, Sam was moving forward, brining the iron rod down on the ghost, cutting through her insubstantial body like it was smoke.

"OUT! NOW!" Dean shouted, startling the girls who seemed amazed by the ghost they had just seen.

"How did you do that?" Ashley asked, "That was so cool, so scary!"

"We'll tell you when we get outside," Dean told her, distractedly, "Sam, you got the rear?"

His brother nodded, "Yeah, just hurry."

"C'mon girls," Dean pressed, "Let's get out of here before someone gets hurt."

"Ahhhh!" the girl who'd taken the selfie with Sam screamed and pointed.

The ghost appeared again and was standing right in front of her.

Dean, closer to the ghost this time, grabbed the girl by the back of her shirt and pulled her away from the spirit, causing her to stumble and cry out with fear. The ghost vanished with a snarl of rage.

"Run!" the hunter instructed and the girls didn't have to be asked twice, all three took off as fast as their feet would carry them.

"Ahhh-" a scream cut through the air only to be cut off abruptly and Dean nearly trampled the girl with the itchy selfie finger, a deep cut in her throat gushing blood down her chest.

Grabbing the hands of the girl's friends, Mags and Ashley, Dean hurried past the injured teen, knowing Sam would get her as he followed.

Slamming through the door to the back of the school, the two teens and one hunter staggered out into the staff parking lot, the girls clutching one another and crying.

"Ella! No! She's dead! She's dead!" the girls cried, hugging, makeup running down their faces.

The door opened a second time and Sam stepped out, the front of his shirt soaked in blood.

"Sam?" Dean asked and the younger hunter shook his head.

"Let's just get these two home and figure out what to do no-" Sam began but was interrupted when the door opened a third time and out stepped Ella, blood-smeared but very much alive.

"ELLA!" her friends screamed and ran to her, embracing their grinning friend.

"What… what the hell?" Dean asked, confused.

"She… she was dead," Sam stammered, "Her throat was slit."

The sound of quick footsteps drew the hunters' attention to a middle-aged woman with short red hair, sunglasses, and a cocky smile.

"That's what we wanted you to think," Randi Rocket announced, "Girls, how do you feel to get Trick'd?"

The host of the prank show shoved a microphone at the trio, Maggie and Ashley just eating up the attention.

Sam and Dean just stared as the crew from the TV show began to emerge from the woods around the school and from inside strategically placed vehicles in the parking lot.

One particular overzealous cameraman approached Dean.

"Get that out of my face," the hunter snapped angrily, shoving the piece of equipment away and causing the man to stumble, almost dropping the camera.

"I don't… This was a joke?" Sam asked, "But the ghost, she…"

"We planned for Ella here to get all slashed up," Randi Rocket told the hunter, pointing her microphone at him, "Her acting was great."

Suddenly, the woman turned to a guy standing by, scarfing down a donut and coffee.

"Hey Joey, did you guys set up that ghost at the last minute?" she called and the man shook his head, "No, not my guys, I thought it was them."

Joey pointed one glaze-coated finger at the Winchesters.

"Can we get selfies?" Ashley, Maggie and Ella asked Sam and Dean, pointing their cell phones at the boys.

"No!" Dean snarled, grabbing his brother's arm, "Let's get out of here. We'll come back when this circus is over."

Sam nodded but out of curiosity, turned to peer up at the school and saw the ghost of the poor girl who'd killed herself staring down at the scene below.

"Yeah," he muttered, and shook his head, amazed at how sometimes ignorance really could be bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt comes from missingmikey.
> 
> Dean's FBI pseudonym is taken from actor Robert Englund, famous for the Nightmare on Elm Street movies while Sam's named after Warrington Gillette, the actor who portrayed Jason Voorhees in Friday the Thirteenth, Part 2.
> 
> The two reality TV shows the girls mention are based on real shows- Trick'd is based on Punk'd- Faces of Fear is based on Scare Tactics- similar to how Ghost Facers was inspired by such shows as Ghost Adventures and Ghost Hunters.
> 
> Please take a moment to leave Kudos or a 'rule' if you can think of one. Much appreciated.


	18. Chapter 18

Rule 18: Don't try and hunt a hungry Wendigo with only a pup tent.

Dean couldn't help but watch skeptically as John set up the tiny tent. Really, it wasn't much of a tent to begin with, basically a large blanket draped over a vertical tree branch with four large rocks on each corner to keep it from blowing away.

Sam held Dean's hand, as he too watched their father, the younger boy's fingers cold in his big brother's grip. This was Sammy's first hunt and Dean couldn't help but wonder if their father should have waited for something easier- and safer- like a ghost while his brother still had his 'training wheels' on.

John finished putting up the tent, took a step back to make sure it was just right, before nodding and turning to his sons.

"This'll do for the night."

"Um… Dad?" Dean said cautiously. He wasn't one to argue with their father but he couldn't help but point out the problem he was seeing, "It's not that big. We're not all going to be able to fit in there."

"That's because not all of us are going to sleep in the tent at the same time," John replied, as though that should have been obvious to his sons, "We are going to take turns watching for the Wendigo."

Dean frowned and glanced quickly to his little brother.

"Even Sammy?"

John's dark eyes fixed on his youngest son's face, "Yes, even Sam."

Dean's frowned deepened but he said nothing else.

"You boys can sleep first," John told them as though he was being extremely generous and Dean quickly pulled his brother into the tent with him.

With only two sides of the tent closed in, wind and a light, misty rain reached the children, making them both shiver. Dean bent down to brush leaves and sticks away before he lay down on his side, motioning to his brother to lie beside him.

The younger boy did as his sibling asked and lay down as well, sniffling for a moment and curled right against his brother's chest. Dean draped an arm around his brother and closed his eyes, trying to get some sleep before their father woke him, as he invariably knew John would so he could keep a lookout when it was his turn.

Outside the tent, the eldest Winchester crouched, watchful, listening to every creak of a branch and shift of the leaves on the ground, flare gun in one hand and flashlight in the other.

SPN

Dean woke to his father shaking his shoulder roughly some time later.

Sitting up and grimacing as his back protested the movement, unused to lying on the cold, hard ground, the boy focused on the silhouette of his father looming over him in the gloom.

"Take these," John whispered, handing Dean the gun and flashlight.

The boy did so and stood, bending over in the tight space of the tent.

"Wake your brother up in four hours," John called out to him as Dean left the tent.

Dean nodded but he wasn't sure his Dad had seen. During the night the rain had increased and now fat, icy drops were falling from the trees.

The boy crouched down on the ground in much the same way his father had done hours earlier and squinted, peering through the forest with his flashlight, careful to keep the beam from the tent and waking John and Sammy.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. He was exhausted and it was very difficult to see anything in the woods at this time of night. The shadows made it look like the Wendigo could be hiding behind any tree or bush, ready to pounce.

As he waited, the boy wondered if he should just let his brother sleep and watch for eight hours instead of four.

No, Dad would know, Dean thought; He'll be pissed if he finds out Sammy didn't take his watch.

Sighing, the boy struggled to stay awake as his brother and father slept in the flimsy tent only a few feet away.

W

"Ahhhhhh!"

The high-pitched scream startled Dean awake and he turned around. He knew exactly who had made that sound. His little brother.

The boy had fallen asleep on his feet and during that time the Wendigo had snuck up on him. The monster was towering over the tattered remains of the tent, claws prepared to tear into flesh instead of fabric.

"DEAN!"

John's shout shook Dean out of his shock.

The boy raised the flare gun and pointed it at the Wendigo that hadn't seemed to notice him despite the glare of the flashlight.

"Dean!" Sam's frightened cry cut through Dean's heart and he fired the gun.

The flare hit the Wendigo in the side and the creature screamed in pain. For a moment Dean didn't think he had killed the monster but then it's grey skin caught fire, quickly burning up like paper as the beast shrieked in pain, charging right over John and Sam in its dying panic.

Dean watched as the Wendigo burned as it ran, until it collapsed a dozen meters from the camp, its remains smoldering.

"SAMMY!" Dean cried, "DAD!"

Hurrying over to his father and brother, the boy shone the flashlight at them; terrified they'd been injured.

John reached out and shoved the flashlight down towards the ground.

"We're fine," he growled.

Dean wasn't convinced. Sammy's face was pale, his hazel eyes wide and he was shaking.

"Come here, Sammy," Dean said and the younger boy practically fell into his arms.

"You okay? It didn't get you?"

The younger boy shook his head, "Dad protected me."

Dean looked up as John stood, wincing and saw a damp patch on his father's sleeve.

"You're hurt!" the older boy cried.

"Just a scratch," John muttered, "I'm fine."

Dean nodded.

The eldest Winchester tore the tattered blanket down, rolled it into a ball before tossing it into the trees.

"What happened, Dean?" the man asked, turning to his eldest son.

The boy was taken aback for a moment, but then raised his head, looking directly into John's eyes.

"I fell asleep, Sir."

"You fell asleep," his father repeated.

Dean nodded.

"What is the most important rule when hunting?" John asked.

"Stay alert," Dean told him right away, "Always. No matter what."

John didn't say anything for a moment, then, his gaze traveled down to his youngest son who was still snuggling with his eldest.

"Do you realize what could have happened because you fell asleep?"

"Yes, I-"

"That Wendigo could have killed you, me and Sam," John interrupted, "We all would have paid the ultimate price for just a few minutes of shuteye."

Dean bit his lip but said nothing. He knew how dangerous Wendgios were and how easily this one could have killed his father and brother. John didn't have to make him feel worse about it.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"No," John snapped.

"No?"

"You're not sorry," the elder Winchester told him, "You don't fully comprehend how serious this was."

"I do! I really-" Dean began but John held a hand up, stopping him.

"Maybe next time you'll think about losing Sam and maybe then you'll take what I'm saying to heart," John told him, "I hope you do and your brother doesn't have to pay for your next mistake."

That said, John started off through the woods in the direction of the road.

Dean remained seated for a moment, his father's words stinging in him still.

He peered down at the top of his brother's head and sighed, standing and pulling his sibling up at the same time.

Taking Sam's hand, Dean used the flashlight to guide the way their father had gone. The younger boy holding tightly onto Dean's free hand as they walked.

"It's okay, Dean," Sammy whispered, "You killed the monster. You kept me safe."

The older boy's heart swelled at his sibling's words at the same time his mind still reeled from his father's admonishment.

"I'll never let anything bad happen to you, Sammy," Dean whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt comes from missingmikey.  
> Please leave an idea for a 'rule' if you have one! Or leave Kudos!


	19. Chapter 19

Rule 19: No Prank Wars During a Hunt

Fourteen-year old Sam Winchester sat in the backseat of the Impala, all but boring holes into the back of his brother's head as Dean rode shotgun beside their father.

The teen was still smarting after his brother's last practical joke in the latest series of the 'Winchester Prank Wars'. He knew he was being stupid for being angry with Dean but it had been a mean and immature joke.

The eighteen-year old, in his wisdom, had taken the last box of Oreos they had, licked all the icing from the middle of each cookie and replaced the filling with toothpaste. He then put all the cookies back into the box as though they hadn't been tampered with.

That very evening, when Sam returned to the motel room, and hungry, decided to have some Oreos, only to find that they had been defiled with toothpaste. Needless to say, the younger Winchester hadn't been impressed, calling Dean an idiot for doing something so stupid.

The older brother's response was to shrug and say, "It didn't kill you, did it?"

When the eldest Winchester found out about the prank, it was a little more serious. Sam couldn't help but smile as he recalled the lecture John had given Dean about acting like an adult and how his prank was a waste of food.

Now all Sam had to do was find a way to get back at his brother.

The fourteen-year old propped his chin on his hand and peered out the window of the Impala, daydreaming about what prank he would pull on his big brother next.

W

Sam took a bite of his turkey club sandwich and eyed the saltshaker sitting on the table in front of him.

Dean, sitting across from him, was already halfway through his cheeseburger, but his French fries were untouched.

Sam knew his brother was the kind of person who put everything on his fries- salt, pepper, ketchup, mayonnaise, vinegar- before he would even touch them.

So why were Dean's fries naked?

He probably knows exactly what I'll do if he gets up from the table, Sam told himself and was resigned to finding a different prank to pull on his brother.

John was sitting beside Dean, not even paying attention to what was going on around him, munching away on his burger with his nose stuck in a newspaper.

Irritated, Sam finished his sandwich and moved on to his salad, angry that his brother was foiling his plans for his prank.

W

Ice-cold water lapped up onto the pebbly beach, reaching out to Sam's boots.

The fourteen-year old gripped his knife tightly as he listened to his father's instructions, his brother at his side.

"This thing only comes up on land to hunt," John was saying, "And it only does that once every new moon so we can't mess this up or we'll have to wait another four weeks."

The younger Winchesters nodded; they had hunted werewolves before- creatures who only came out during the three days of the full moon- and were therefore well aware of the need to kill the monster quickly.

"This is a bit more dangerous," John continued, "You need to get close enough to the beast to stab its heart."

"It has to be the heart?" Dean asked and their father nodded, "That's what the lore says. The only way to kill a Dobhar-chú is to stab it through its heart."

Sam glanced at his brother. He didn't fancy the idea of getting close enough for the monster to kill him just so he could kill it.

"We have all night," John told them, "So take your time. But stay alert and watch out for each other."

The boys nodded; Dean stepping closer to his sibling.

"You have everything?" their father asked, and the boys raised their knives; Sam showing that he had the flashlight and Dean presenting the walkie-talkie.

John nodded, "Let me know as soon as you kill this thing and I will do the same if I find it."

"We will," Dean assured him and the brothers watched their father make his way down the edge of the beach, pebbles and seashells crunching beneath his boots.

"C'mon Sammy," the eighteen-year old said and the younger boy followed his brother as he headed in the opposite direction John had gone.

W

Sam squinted at his watch in the gloom and saw that forty minutes had passed since he and Dean had parted ways with their father.

In that time neither teen had spoken, ears and eyes straining for any sound or sight of their quarry to no avail.

The brothers had paused in their walk along the seashore, Dean sitting on a large piece of driftwood that had washed up on the shore.

"Maybe Dad was wrong and it's not a Dobhar-chú," Sam muttered quietly, "Maybe it was just a shark."

Illuminated by the beam his brother's flashlight, Dean shrugged, "You saw the bodies…"

"And they looked like a shark could have attacked them," Sam added.

"I don't know, are there really a lot of shark attacks in Washington?" Dean asked pointedly.

Sam sighed, "The only authentic shark attack was in the spring of 1989, and the surfer survived."

His brother nodded, "So it's probably not a shark. Dad knows what he's doing, Sam. He knows a monster when he sees what's left of the victim."

The fourteen-year old didn't reply but took a few steps away from his sibling, annoyed that they had not found the monster yet and impatient to get back at his brother for his dumb toothpaste-in-the-Oreos trick.

"Don't go too far away, Sammy!" Dean called from his seat on the piece of driftwood.

The younger boy shrugged and continued wandering away, swinging the flashlight in wide arcs, illuminating the rocky beach ahead. He wouldn't get too far away from his sibling; there was still a Dobhar-chú around.

Swinging the flashlight to the right, the beam revealed a large clump of Coastal Panic Grass about six feet high and an idea suddenly came to the teen. It was a harmless idea but it would certainly get Dean back for his own practical joke.

Turning off the flashlight, Sam ducked into the clump of grass, crouching down so that he couldn't easily be seen and cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting out for his sibling.

"DEAN! DEAN! HELP!"

Within seconds Sam heard the pounding of footfalls against the stony beach and smirked.

"Sammy? Sam? Where are you?" Dean called out, his tone frightened.

"HERE!" Sam cried and grabbed a handful of grass, shaking it, "THE MONST-"

Grasses parting violently, Dean peered down at his sibling, chest heaving with panic. The eighteen-year old blinked and raised a hand to shield his eyes as his sibling turned the flashlight back on and shone it in his face.

"Where- Where is it?" Dean stammered, frowning.

Sam grinned from ear to ear, "Gottcha."

A look of realization dawned on the older boy's face and Dean scowled, "You idiot! That's not funny."

"It was a bit," Sam argued, standing up and wiping sand from the seat of his jeans.

"No, it wasn't," Dean snapped and grabbed the flashlight from his sibling, shining it directly in Sam's face.

"I really thought you were in trouble," he continued.

"Than I guess I win this round," Sam replied smugly.

Dean shoved past him, "No way. That's wasn't funny. Don't you know what happened to the kid who cried wolf?"

"Dean," Sam called as his brother stomped through the patch of grass and continued on his way, "Dean! Come back, I can't see anything without the flashlight!"

The eighteen-year old didn't return to his sibling. Sam sighed and started making his way through the panic grass, stepping carefully to avoid tripping over hidden obstacles.

A low growl from behind the teen made Sam stop in his tracks.

"Dean?" he called out quietly.

SPN

Sam thought he was so funny, thought he was being smart. Well, Dean didn't see the humor in his little prank. He'd actually thought his brother had been hurt. That was not a laughing matter in the least.

Sure, his prank with the Oreo cookies may have been stupid and immature but at least it wasn't dangerous.

Dean couldn't help but fume at his sibling's joke. He started off through the grass without waiting for his brother, knowing that Sam would rush after him in a minute or two.

Sam knew better than to joke around while they were actively hunting a monster; pranks were fine as long as they didn't interfere with their job.

The eighteen-year old was quite a ways down the beach before he realized his brother hadn't caught up to him.

"Sammy?" Dean called and turned around, shining the flashlight down along the beach, seeing no sign of his sibling.

"D'N!" a cry cut through the quiet night, making the teen jump.

Dean's first instinct was to run towards the sound but then he stopped.

"I don't believe it," he muttered out loud.

He's trying it again, he thought; I'm going to kill him. This is so not funny.

A second scream rang out, shriller than the first, cutting off abruptly.

Sighing, Dean began walking towards the grasses where Sam was hiding, still continuing to play around.

"I'm going to deck you, Sam," Dean warned, "When I get over there! I told you to stop it!"

"D'n!"

This cry was weaker, quieter and full of pain. Dean knew Sam could act but he wasn't that good. His brother really was hurt.

"Sam?" he cried and began running towards the spot where he had left his sibling, "Sammy!"

Pebbles slid out from beneath Dean's boots, nearly causing him to fall several times before he reached the grass. Shoving the long grasses aside, the beam of the flashlight jerking from side to side as the eighteen-year old began to panic.

Dean's heart leaped into his throat as the light illuminated a pool of dark red liquid splashed against the stones mere inches away from his shoes.

"SAM!" he bellowed and received a weak cry in response coming from the direction of the water's edge.

"Sammy!" Dean shouted and trampled the grass as he charged towards the edge of the ocean, heart pounding fearfully. As soon as he was clear of the grass, Dean could clearly see a trail of dark red liquid smeared across the stones and shells that coated the beach, the bloody line stopping abruptly just where the water lapped at the shore.

A crumpled figure lay facedown against the ground while a creature the size of a German Shepard with the head of a hound with floppy pennant ears, the body and legs of an otter and the tail of a beaver, dipped its snout down to take a bite of its prey.

With no thought for his own safety, Dean ran forward, knife in hand, and brought the blade down into the side of the Dobhar-chú's exposed throat. Blood as cold as the ocean water lapping at the stones squirted across the teen's hand and the monster snapped at the hunter.

Dean just barely moved his hand free of the monster's jaws and stabbed the creature again, this time in its chest.

The Dobhar-chú squealed in agony and backed away, the blade sliding from its chest with a wet squelch and sighed, collapsing beside the injured boy.

Dean waited for a moment, eyes wide as the monster's body dissolved into foam that was quickly swept away by the lapping ocean waves, before turning his attention to his sibling.

"Sam? Sammy?" the eighteen-year old rolled his brother over onto his back and peered into the boy's face.

Sam's skin was pale and streaked with blood; his eyes were closed.

"Sammy!" Dean snapped and he shook his brother's shoulder, "Wake up! C'mon man!"

A crackle from the walkie-talkie in Dean's pocket startling him and he grabbed it with one hand, the other gripping his sibling's shoulder tightly.

"Dad… I killed the monster but… Sammy's hurt bad…"

Dean barely heard John's response, which included some colourful language, and continued his attempts to wake his sibling.

"Sammy, Sam," he urged, putting the walkie-talkie back in his pocket and using the flashlight to illuminate his sibling and show their father where they were.

"C'mon man," Dean muttered, "This isn't funny. This is lame."

Sam made no response. His eyes remained closed and his face remained as pale as before.

"You win, okay?" Dean told him, "You win the prank wars. You're the champion. Now wake up."

"Damn it," the teen swore and laid the flashlight on the ground, pointed towards his sibling so that his hands were free as he began checking his brother's injuries.

The right leg of Sam's jeans were torn to shreds and coated in blood, the skin beneath in tatters. Dean moved his gaze upwards and opened his sibling's jacket to find it too, slick with blood. Sam's chest and belly had been clawed cruelly by the Dobhar-chú but the lacerations did not look deep enough to have done any permanent damage. Carefully pulling his brother's jacket off, Dean grimaced as he held his sibling's left arm carefully, the skin and flesh beneath gashed by the monster's teeth.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean murmured as he formed his sibling's jacket into a ball and pressed it against his arm, which seemed to have taken the worst damage.

"DEAN!" the eighteen-year old heard his father shout and he raised his flashlight to show the elder Winchester where they were.

Within seconds John was at Dean's side, peering concerned at his youngest son's face.

"What happened?"

"I don't know," Dean told him, "The Dobhar-chú just snuck up on us, surprised me and grabbed Sammy. Started dragging him to the water."

John didn't even nod. His mouth had formed a thin, grim line and his dark eyes were moist.

"We have to get him to a hospital."

The father stood and held his hands out but Dean shook his head. His fourteen-year old brother was small for his age and Dean could carry him. Cradling his unconscious sibling like an infant, the eighteen-year old followed John to the edge of the beach where the Impala sat waiting.

SPN

Sam Winchester lay uncomfortably in the backseat of the Impala.

He had woken up hours after being admitted to a local hospital and having his wounds taken care of. He had over forty stitches in his leg and nearly a hundred in his arm, plus surgery to repair torn ligaments in both limbs. The cuts on his chest had been cleaned and bandaged but thankfully had not required stitches as well.

He had been quiet ever since waking up, feeling like an idiot for tricking Dean. If he hadn't been so stupid, he might not be in such a state at this moment.

"Hey Sammy, you awake?" Dean turned around in the front passenger seat as they stopped to fill up on gas, John leaving his sons in the vehicle.

"Yeah," the teen muttered.

"How are you feeling?"

"Awful," Sam replied, "Not that I don't deserve to."

"Sam-" his brother began but the younger sibling interrupted.

"No, I was being stupid," he told Dean, "I could have died. I could have avoided this if I hadn't been thinking about your prank with the Oreos."

He could see his brother's mouth moving, as though Dean wanted to say something but he didn't.

"Let's make a truce then," Dean suggested, holding his hand out, pinkie finger out, "No pranks during hunts."

Sam reached out with his uninjured arm and hooked his pinkie finger around his brother's.

"No pranks during hunts," he grimaced.

Dean nodded, serious, but then he grinned, "But any other time is free game. You better watch out. When you're better…"

The eighteen-year old laughed maniacally and the younger boy groaned, closing his eyes in exasperation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rule comes from a combination of ideas from CarverEdlundtheLast and AnitaRez.  
> The monster the Winchesters are hunting is a real mythical creature from Irish folklore. The Dobhar-chú has been sighted as long ago as the 17th century and as recently as the year 2003.  
> Please take a moment to leave Kudos or an idea for a rule!


	20. Chapter 20

Rule 20: Always wear face shields when hunting man-eating plants.

Sam and Dean Winchester peered down at the remains of eighty-two year old Maureen Jones-Hayes.

The elderly woman's eyes were closed lightly, their lids a deep purple hue framed by snow-white lashes. Her thin-lipped mouth slightly upturned in a smile, crow's feet around the corners. Her parchment thin skin was pale, with blue veins visible beneath.

To the casual observer, the woman might have been sleeping but for the large chunk of flesh taken from her wattled neck, revealing muscle, veins and cartilage. Her right hand had also been mauled, missing the thumb, index and middle fingers, bits of pink gardening gloves poking out from the wounds.

"Looks like a shark got her," Dean commented with a half-smile, half-grimace.

"In the middle of Nebraska?" Sam asked sarcastically.

Turning to the local coroner, Sam spoke to her, "Were there any dogs lose in the area?"

"Not that we know," the coroner, a woman who didn't look much younger than Jones-Hays lying on the metal table between her and the hunters.

"The police searched for reports of aggressive dogs but found none from the past six months," Dr. Pinto explained.

"Coyote then?" Sam asked and the coroner nodded, "That seems more likely."

"Wait," Dean interrupted, "I didn't think coyotes killed people. I thought they were shy."

"They normally are," Dr. Pinto explained, "But if one is hurt or sick, it would be more likely to attack a human."

Dean nodded. This was shaping up to be a regular, run-of-the-mill wild animal attack for once. He was glad this wasn't going to be his and Sam's thing. They had bigger fish to fry right now.

The case was simple, open-and-shut. Old woman was out gardening in the early morning when a rabid coyote decided she'd make an easy meal.

"Is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen?" Dr. Pinto asked, looking at Sam.

"No, thank you, Doctor," he replied, "But here's our card. Feel free to call us if you find anything unusual."

The coroner took the business card from Sam, peering at him curiously, as though wondering what could be unusual about a coyote attack.

"I will," Dr. Pinto promised though she looked skeptical.

W

Dean revved the Impala's engine, ready to get back home and find out where the hell Cas, Kelly and Lucifer's baby had gone.

"Let's check out her house," Sam suggested, interrupting his brother's thoughts.

Pressing his foot on the brake, Dean stared at his brother, "Why?"

"Because I don't think this was a coyote attack," Sam replied as though it was obvious.

"You heard Dr. Pinto," Dean argued, "It was a coyote. End of story."

"Dean," Sam began, "Have you ever known a case we've look into to be something as mundane as an animal attack?"

Raising his hands, Dean counted on his fingers, "Two, actually."

Sam frowned, "Just humor me, please."

"Don't you want to know where Cas is? If he's hurt?" Dean argued.

"I do," Sam replied earnestly, "But we can't leave until we know that this is just a case of a rogue animal killing someone who at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Dean wanted to argue, he really did. He was worried about his friend but his brother was right. The last thing he wanted was to hear of another person had died because they had left town thinking the local cops could take care of a pesky coyote on their own.

"Fine," Dean grumbled, "We'll check out her house, but if there's nothing to see, we're gone."

Sam nodded, "That's fine by me."

Dean pulled out of the parking spot and headed in the direction of Maureen Jones-Hayes residence.

W

Maureen Jones-Hayes' home was a quaint ranch-style home with flourishing gardens along the front and sides.

The only sign that its resident was deceased was the yellow crime-scene tape strung across the front porch.

Dean parked the Impala behind the elderly woman's cream-coloured Volkswagen Beetle and got out, ready to prove to his brother that this was simply a case of an animal attack and nothing more.

Sam exited the Chevy directly after his sibling and surveyed the house.

"She was found lying in her front garden," Sam announced, "There."

He walked across the lawn to a patch of garden that had been crushed by Maureen's body, blood spattered on the leaves of the white roses growing there.

Crouching down, the hunter brushed some of the leaves aside, looking for tufts of beige coyote fur or paw prints.

Aware of Dean hovering over his shoulder, standing and watching the houses on either side of the victim's, Sam leaned closer to a cluster of roses and took a sniff.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked irritably and Sam turned to him.

"Something's not right here," the younger brother commented.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked.

"I can't smell the roses," Sam commented.

The older brother raised an eyebrow, "So?"

"They should have a scent," Sam told him, "With the amount rosebushes in the garden we should have been able to smell them as soon as we got out of the car."

"Oh, so you're a horticulturist now?"

Sam sighed, "I'm worried about Cas too, Dean. But if something supernatural killed this woman and we don't stop it…"

Dean waved his brother's words away, "Yeah, yeah, I get ya."

The elder hunter leaned forward and took a sniff, just to be certain, and it turned out his brother was correct, he could not smell roses but instead…

"Is that pie?" he asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

"What?" Sam asked, blinking confusedly at him, "Pie?"

"I… uh… I smell pie," Dean confessed.

Sam glowered at him, "Really Dean? Now is when you decide to think about food?"

"I'm not thinking about food!" the older brother insisted, "But I smell pie… pecan pie."

"Maybe it's coming from a neighour's house," Sam commented.

Dean straightened, "Yeah, probably."

Turning away from his sibling, Sam continued to search the area for anything unusual.

SPN

Dean tried to hide his annoyance with his sibling but it was difficult.

Watching his brother carefully push aside the thorny roses in search of any evidence that this was something more than an animal attack, Dean noticed movement from the corner of his eye.

"Sam," he said, his hand going to the gun concealed at the small of his back.

"Are you police?" the stranger, a man asked, his hands held up slightly to show he was not a threat.

"Federal agents," Dean answered, "And who are you?"

"Nigel," the man, who appeared to be in his mid-forties replied, "I just live there."

The neighbour pointed to two houses down from the one they were searching.

"You got a last name, Nigel?" Dean asked.

"Emory," the man asked. He looked as threatening as a doily. He was wearing beige corduroy trousers, dark brown dress shoes, a light blue button-up shirt and a navy blue vest. His head was balding on top, which, made him look distinctly monkish, and he wore gold-rimmed glasses.

"Did you know the victim well?" Dean asked, "Mr. Emory?"

Nigel nodded, "Maureen gave me tips for my own gardens, though they aren't as nice as hers. She loved those gardens, loved roses in particular. They were her children. She competed in the annual Green Thumb Games every year and won."

"Hm," Dean muttered, "What's that?"

"Just a town wide gardening competition. The winners don't even get any money, just a cheap trophy and bragging rights. It's mostly an excuse to socialize with other flower enthusiasts."

That piqued Dean's interest and he continued to question the neighbour, "Did Ms. Jones-Hayes' have any enemies? Anyone who was upset that she always won this competition?"

Nigel Emory shook his head, "No one could hate Maureen. She was just the sweetest lady; very humble about winning."

Before Dean could ask anything else, the neighbour caught sight of Sam, who was tearing out rose heads, his hands covered in the cuffs of his suit jacket to avoid the thorns.

"Hey! What are you doing! You can't do that!" Nigel exclaimed and stepped forward, only to be stopped with Dean's hand on his chest.

"What've you go, Sa-" Dean began before correcting himself, "-Agent McKagan?"

"This," Sam replied and pointed to a plant huddled close to the dirt, surrounded by the snowy white roses, "Is not a rose."

Dean frowned and stepped closer.

"What is that?"

The plant, looking very conspicuous, had a thick, bright green stem from which four vines emerged, each trailing deeper into the rosebushes and vanishing from sight. At the center of the quartet of vines sat a single flower folded in two with needle thin protrusions like teeth along the outer edges. Although the outsides of the petals were the same bright green as the vines, the inside of them seemed to be crimson red.

"Is that-" Dean began but Nigel spoke before he could finish.

"Dionaea muscipula."

"Venus flytrap," Sam commented, speaking the common name for the plant, "But I've never seen one so big."

"Why is that in here?" Dean asked.

The hunters both turned to Nigel as though he would have the answer.

"I don't know," he admitted, "Maybe Maureen was using it to keep away harmful insects."

Sam crouched down again and poked at the flytrap's 'mouth'. Almost instantly, the twin petals parted to reveal a gob of something red and wet.

Dean, seeing this, quickly put his hand on Nigel's shoulder and turned the man around, "Did you see anything strange this morning, Mr. Emory? We are thinking Ms. Jones-Hays' death is the result of an animal attack."

"What-" the neighbour tried to look over his shoulder at what Sam- or Agent McKagan- was doing but Dean continued to steer him further from the garden.

"Oh, I don't know," he replied, "I didn't even look outside until I heard police sirens."

Dean nodded, "That's fine. Listen, thank you for your cooperation. We'll call on you if we have anymore questions, all right?"

"Uh, Agent-" Nigel began but the hunter interrupted.

"Adler," he told the man, "Agent Adler."

"Thank you," Dean repeated and gave the man a little encouraging shove in the direction of his home, "We'll be in touch!"

Nigel Emory left the property, a perplexed expression on his face as he headed down the sidewalk. Once he was out of hearing range, Dean went to Sam's side and crouched down.

"That's not really what I think it is, is it?" he asked, gesturing to the gristly chunk of gore nestled in the Venus flytrap's petals.

Reaching out, Sam quickly plucked the piece of meat out of the plant and held it out on his palm, showing the tip of a finger, complete with its nail.

"Yup," he commented.

Dean sighed, "Why couldn't this just be an animal attack?"

SPN

Sitting in the parking lot of a local burger joint, Dean tried not to think about what they had found in Ms. Jones-Hayes' garden, even as they discussed the case.

"So do you think Maureen put the plant there herself or someone planted it?" Dean asked, taking a large bite of his chili-cheeseburger as Sam munched stolidly on his salad.

"Could be either one," his brother commented, crunching on a crouton, "But you said she always won that gardening competition so I'm more likely to say someone planted it there without her knowing."

Dean nodded, picking up his cup of soda and taking a contemplative sip.

"How do we find that out?" he asked.

"I wonder how many nurseries this town has," Sam wondered out loud.

SPN

"Well that was useless," Dean grumped as he and Sam sat down in the respective seats in the Impala.

They were in the parking lot of a tiny nursery called Flourishing Flowers and had found nothing useful after interviewing the employees. They didn't sell Venus flytraps and no one had inquired about purchasing any all season.

"There's one more," Sam told his brother, crossing off the current nursery from the short list he had made on a notepad they kept in the car's glove box.

"Great," Dean sighed sarcastically and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

"Do you need a tissue?" Sam asked, watching as his brother then wiped his hand on the side of his dress pants.

Sniffing, Dean shook his head, "I'm fine."

Sam smiled a little. Dean seemed to have developed allergies and was barely keeping it together. While trying to interview the doe-eyed teen at the cash register, the older Winchester had experienced a sneezing attack and Sam had been forced to take over the questioning until Dean got himself under control.

Eyes bloodshot nose red and running, Dean looked- and probably felt- miserable. Luckily there weren't many nurseries and greenhouses in town. Sam had suggested stopping at a pharmacy for some antihistamines but Dean had just shook his head and insisted he'd be fine once they returned to the motel.

Turning the Impala's engine on, Dean pulled out of his parking spot and headed onto the road towards their final destination.

"You're doing the interviewing for this one," he commented, "I'm tired of trying to get out of conversations about fertilizer."

"Okay," Sam agreed.

W

Bob of 'Bob's Begonias' was more than welcoming to the two fake FBI agents.

"As you can see here," he spread his flabby arms wide, "I don't sell anything but begonias."

"Uh huh," Sam muttered, peering around at the multicoloured flowers.

"Do you enter into the Green Thumb Games yearly?" Sam asked, the sea of colour making him feel slightly nauseous.

"I sure do," Bob commented expansively.

"Have you ever won?" Dean asked.

The man's expression crumbled slightly, "Well, no, that woman, Maureen Jones-Hayes wins every year."

"And how does that make you feel?" Sam asked, suddenly more interested than he had been moments ago.

"I'm not a sore loser if that's what you mean," Bob told the brothers carefully, "But I don't think it's fair that woman can win every single year."

"Do you mind if I look around while my partner asks you a few more questions?" Dean asked, holding back the urge to sniff.

"Go ahead," Bob shrugged, "I've got nothing to hide."

The elder hunter slouched off while the younger continued grilling the nursery's proprietor.

SPN

Only wanting to get this investigation over with as quickly as possible, Dean headed into the nursery's greenhouse- a metal skeleton frame covered with plastic tarp skin- to rule out Bob as the culprit that had given the victim the deadly plant.

Walking past rows and rows of pink, yellow, white, salmon, and red begonias, Dean searched their pots carefully for any sign of the strange Venus's flytrap that had apparently killed elderly Maureen Jones-Hayes.

Sighing in resignation, Dean paused at the small cashier's stand at the back of the nursery, peering disinterestedly at the doorway behind it that seemed to lead to Bob's personal office. A small plaque on the door read 'General Manager'.

The hunter was about to head back to where his brother was interviewing Bob when, through his stuffed nose and inflamed sinuses, the distinct sugary scent of fresh baked pecan pie penetrated his olfactory senses.

Looking up, Dean frowned. Why did he smell pie again?

Confused for a moment or two, the hunter continued to stare at the door to Bob's office. Either he had a pecan pie in there or… or… he had a man-eating flytrap in there.

The revelation stunned Dean so greatly that he didn't even hear his brother and the nursery owner approach. Intending to get Sam and tell him what he had discovered- what he thought he had discovered- he turned and came face-to-face with his sibling and Bob.

"Sammy!" Dean exclaimed, startled.

Sam gave him a quizzical look, "Agent Adler."

Clearing his throat, Dean gathered his bearings, "Agent McKagan."

"Is everything all right, Agent?" Bob asked.

Dean nodded, "Yes, I was just surprised to see you two. Didn't hear you approach."

"I think we can go," Sam said, meeting his brother's eyes.

Something's wrong here, Dean told his sibling silently, his expression conveying the message to his brother in a way that Bob would not understand.

"Thank you for your time," Dean spoke up, "Please let us know if you think of anything else."

Bob nodded and watched as Dean grabbed Sam's arm, guiding him away from the nursery owner, struggling to keep from running to their car.

SPN

"What was that back there, Dean? You look like you saw a ghost," Sam asked, loosening his tie gratefully as he dropped down onto the end of his motel bed.

Dean, who strangely enough, hadn't made a move to remove his dress clothes, paced in front of his younger brother.

"I smelled it again, Sam," he told him, "Pecan pie."

"Are you sure its not just your stuffed up nose playing tricks on you?" the younger sibling asked.

"I would have thought so but… begonias don't smell, do they?"

Sam hesitated for a moment and then shook his head.

"Most don't," he confirmed.

"So what are the chances that I could smell pie over at the victim's house and at Bob's Begonias? I didn't even smell it at any of the other nurseries we visited."

Sam couldn't help the expression that crossed his face as Dean spoke and it drew his sibling's attention.

"What? Sam, what is it?" Dean asked, his tone concerned.

"I… I know what you mean about smelling pie," he muttered, fidgeting. He hadn't wanted to tell Dean at the time, but while he was going through the scentless rose bushes at the victim's house, he had caught whiff of a different, familiar and painfully nostalgic scent. It was that fragrance that had helped him locate the flytrap in the first place.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, "Did you smell it to and not tell me?"

Seeing that his brother was becoming angry, Sam held his hands out, "No, not pie, something else."

"What? Salad?" Dean asked, half-joking.

Sam shook his head and cast his eyes downwards.

"Jessica's perfume."

Dean seemed stunned by his answer and did not speak for a long minute.

"Really?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Sam nodded.

"Sam," he continued, "Jesus, why didn't you tell me?"

"I… I thought it was just me," Sam admitted, "I didn't want you to think I was…."

"Making it up?" Dean offered, "Crazy?"

Sam nodded.

"I haven't thought about Jess… really thought about her… in years," he muttered, his throat tightening with emotion. Even after so many years, her death still hurt as much as it did the day it happened.

"Why though?" Dean asked.

"Why what?" Sam wondered, trying to shove thoughts of Jessica Moore from his mind.

"Why did I smell pie and you smell perfume?"

The younger hunter forced his mind to focus on the task at hand and think about the killer plant.

"Some Venus flytraps attract their prey by giving off an inviting scent," Sam said slowly, "Pollinating insects think they're going to get food but-"

"-They become the food instead," Dean finished.

Sam nodded.

"That's why I could smell pie," Dean continued with finality, "The plant was trying to attract me."

Sam frowned slightly, "But that doesn't make much sense, Dean. You're certainly smarter than the average bug and I'm sure Maureen was as well."

"Maybe there's something we're missing?" Dean suggested.

"Let's go back to the house," Sam stood, fixing his tie.

"Right now?" Dean asked and Sam nodded.

"We don't know if Bob just gave Maureen one of those plants or he gave them to other people," Sam told him, "We need to see this through before anyone else is killed."

SPN

Dean could think of a hundred different things he would rather be doing than going through an old dead woman's gardens in the middle of the night.

But Sam was right. Bob might be holding grudges against other people and not just a woman who happened to grow better flowers than he did.

"I can't find it," Sam told him.

"Can you smell it?" Dean asked, holding a flashlight and shining it into the rose bushes.

Sam shook his head.

"Ow!" he exclaimed and drew his hand up to his mouth, putting his thumb into his mouth.

"Be careful," Dean advised belatedly.

"I don't think it's here," Sam muttered and brushed aside a rose bloom.

"Wait…" Sam commented, "Give me more light."

Dean obliged and swore.

"Son of a bitch."

A divot, the size of a baseball had been dug into the soil where the Venus flytrap had been just hours before.

"He knows were onto him," Dean commented.

"Then we don't have much time," Sam agreed and stood, brushing dirt away from the knees of his dress pants.

Before Sam could step out of the garden, however, Dean reached out and gripped his arm.

"What are you planning to do?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"If we destroy the plants," Dean said, "Bob might get more."

Sam's face darkened, "Than we kill Bob."

Taken aback by his brother's ruthless response, Dean let go of Sam's arm.

Flicking off the flashlight, he followed his younger sibling to the Impala.

W

"Looks like no one's home," Dean commented as the pulled into the parking lot of 'Bob's Begonias'.

Sam didn't say anything but exited the car quickly and silently; Dean noticing how his hand went to the gun at the small of his back as though to ensure it was still there.

The elder Winchester followed his brother swiftly across the parking lot to the greenhouse, pulling open the door that had been left unlocked.

"Guess no one's going to steal some plants," Dean muttered to himself and flicked on his flashlight.

"Stay close, Sammy," he advised.

Sam nodded but moved rapidly down the aisles of begonias, heading straight to the office at the back of the green house.

Damn it, Dean swore silently and jogged to keep up to his sibling.

The sound of a door swinging shut distracted the hunter and Dean froze, panning his flashlight around the rows of potted multicoloured flowers.

When no other sound was forthcoming, he returned his attention to where his brother was, to find Sam gone.

"Sammy," Dean hissed, swinging the light around to try and catch sight of his brother's tall form.

"Shit," he muttered and continued on towards Bob's office.

SPN

Sam didn't realize he'd left his brother behind as he headed towards the general manager's office, intent on putting a bullet between Bob's eyes.

Passing between rows and rows of begonias, the scent of Jessica's perfume suddenly became overpowering and Sam paused, his heart aching.

So entrenched in his thoughts of his deceased girlfriend, the hunter didn't even realize that a vine was quietly sneaking towards him from underneath the tables of potted plants.

Before Sam could continue, the vine rose up to the level of his face and its tip opened and exhaled a noxious cloud of fumes.

"Huh," Sam turned his face, directly into the miasma and lost consciousness as he stood.

Hitting the hard-packed dirt floor of the nursery with a dull thud, Sam was unaware as, moments later, the same vine wrapped around his ankles and began dragging him away beneath the tables of flowers.

SPN

Dean kicked in the door to Bob's office and shone his flashlight into the gloom. The cloying scent of pecan pie was overwhelming now and the hunter actually coughed as he breathed in the sweet scent.

"Oh my God," the hunter panned his light over the huge Venus flytrap hunkered down in the center of the office, looking so much like the murderous plant from Little Shop of Horrors Dean expected it to greet him in a silky, masculine voice.

The plant, of course, said nothing, but shot a dozen vines at the hunter so quickly that Dean didn't even have time to get his gun before he hit the floor hard, tendrils wrapped tightly around his ankles and knees.

The spiked maw of the plant opened wide and Dean was horrified to see a slimy skeleton slip from between the petals, landing on the dirt floor and breaking apart. The strong vines quickly drew the hunter towards the plant's mouth but Dean was ready. With his arms still free he reached behind him and grabbed his gun. The plant may be a killer but it didn't have human intelligence.

Aiming directly into the monstrous mouth, Dean fired off three shots in quick succession.

The bullets tore right through the plant's petals, allowing clear fluid to seep through but the vines did not cease dragging him towards its mouth.

"Shit," Dean ground out and pointed his gun at one of the vines securing his ankles.

The bullet ripped the vine in two and he kicked his legs, forcing the vine wrapped around his knees to pull apart. Shooting them as well, just to be safe, Dean grinned triumphantly before he spied a bulky figure step out of the shadows.

For a second, the hunter thought it was his brother but was disturbed to see Bob standing there with a shotgun.

"That old bitch had it coming, Agent Adler," the fat nursery owner said, unsmiling, "I was the only one brave enough to put her in her place."

"Fuck you," Dean lifted his gun and shot Bob once between the eyes.

The man fell to the ground, dust clouds puffing up around his body, visible even in the darkened room and immediately the flytrap's remaining vines wrapped around his legs, dragging the corpse towards its waiting mouth.

Jumping to his feet and breathing a sigh of relief, at how easy this case had been.

"Sammy!" Dean called his brother's name and frowned when he didn't receive an answer.

"Sammy?" He called again, his heart skipping a beat as he watched the giant flytrap's mouth close around Bob's body and his gaze went to the slick bones still scattered across the ground.

"SAM!"

Taking off out of the room, Dean's heart hammered in his chest. He had to find his brother. He just had to.

That skeleton wasn't his. It wasn't. No, Sam was okay.

"SAMMY!"

Dean swung the flashlight around wildly, desperately willing his brother to appear between the rows of begonias.

Momentarily, in the glow of white from the flashlight's beam, the black of his brother's suit jacket was illuminated on the ground at the end of the row of flowers.

Dashing forward, it took only a split second for Dean to take in the sight of his unconscious brother, the basketball-sized flytrap and the blood seeping from his sibling's arm.

"Oh no you don't," Dean raised his foot and brought it down hard on the plant, smashing it into the dirt.

Clear sap and red human blood seeped out from inside the plant's mouth as Dean ground his foot against the dirt floor, the flytrap's vines falling limp as wet noodles as he did so.

Certain that the plant was dead, Dean dropped to his knees beside his brother. There was a large chunk of flesh taken out of his sibling's forearm and Dean cringed at the sight of the weeping wound but forced himself to lightly smack his brother's cheeks.

"Sammy, hey, Sammy, wake up," Dean urged, his heart pounding at how pale his brother's face was.

"Get up, Sam," he continued, "Wake up."

"Nuhhh," the younger brother groaned, his face scrunching with pain.

"Sam," Dean demanded, "Up. Now."

"J'ssss," the hunter whined and Dean's heart broke, just a little.

"C'mon Sammy," he cajoled, "C'mon and open your eyes."

Slowly, reluctantly, from pain or from the plant's fumes, the hunter opened his eyes to hazel slits.

"D'n," he whispered.

"Me," Dean replied, "Can you sit up?"

Before his brother could answer, Dean heaved his sibling into a sitting position.

"Ah!" Sam cried out in pain and held his injured arm to his chest.

"I've got you," Dean assured him, "C'mon, get up, we've gotta torch this place."

Sam groaned but did as his brother asked, allowing Dean to help him to stand.

"We'll get you checked out at a hospital, okay?" Dean told him and Sam nodded dazedly.

Taking off his suit jacket, Dean tore the sleeve off one side and wrapped it around his brother's injured arm, ignoring his sibling's protests.

Putting a comforting arm around his brother's shoulders, Dean led Sam out into the parking lot, noticing that the younger man's staggered steps grew more steady as they moved further away from the evil plants even as his breathing became fast and shallow.

While Sam waited in the passenger's seat of the Impala, Dean knelt down at the side of one of the dry, rickety tables that held Bob's begonias and fished his lighter from his pocket.

The wood caught quickly, and within minutes the table itself had collapsed from the heat, the begonias burning with a hiss, the plastic tarp behind them melting into a puddle.

Dean waited only until he was certain the interior of the nursery had caught flame before he returned to the Impala.

W

Dean stood outside his sibling's hospital room, speaking with the local police officers.

"We're sorry that your partner got attacked by that rabid coyote," one young, baby-faced cop told Dean and the hunter nodded, grimacing, "Shame it got away too. We'll be on the lookout for a while."

"Uh thank you," he muttered, "Any word on Bob?"

The older of the two townie cops, a woman with a prominent harelip scar shook her head, "We found Bob's skeletal remains at the nursery but the other body… we have no idea who it is. It's just bizarre. By the fire got to the office, it wasn't burning as hot and the body just kind of… cooked… but the coroner can't seem to get a good DNA sample from any of the tissue."

Dean nodded, distractedly, thinking more about his brother's round of anti-rabies needles he was forced to get.

"Yeah, strange," he offered.

"Oh, I thought I'd bring this along," the fresh-faced cop dug into his pocket and pulled out a photograph that had been clipped from a newspaper.

"Here's this year's Green Thumb Games," he told Dean, "It shows everyone who competed."

The hunter peered down at the photo and easily picked out Maureen Jones-Hayes standing front and center with a golden trophy in the shape of a sunflower in her arms.

"Who are those people?" Dean asked, pointing to the man and woman standing on either side of the winner in second and third place, respectively.

The cop peered at Dean with slight confusion, "That's Bob."

Dean stared down at the elderly man holding up a blue third-place ribbon.

"Agent? Agent, are you all right, you look like you've seen a ghost?" the female cop asked.

"Uh, I'm fine," Dean muttered.

"Excuse me for a moment," he continued and went into Sam's room, closing and locking the door behind him.

Maybe Bob had a son of the same name, Dean thought as he sat on the chair beside his brother's bed; yeah, that had to be it.

Dean felt slightly better for this thought and peered down at his brother. Sam was sleeping lightly, his forearm bandaged tightly, unaware of the fright his sibling had received.

Letting out a breath through his mouth slowly, Dean brushed Sam's bangs away from his face.

In another day or so, when Sam had had all his shots, they would be able to leave town and return home. Dean felt bad that he'd had to say Sam had been attacked by the same coyote responsible for Maureen Jones-Hayes death but there had been no other way to explain his injuries and the younger brother had been a good sport about it. As if he had any other choice.

W

Dean breathed a sigh of relief when they put the town in their rearview mirror. He had told Sam everything that had happened in the general manager's office at the nursery, everything but the skeleton falling out of the giant plant's mouth before it grabbed Bob. Sam was none the wiser. They had quickly surmised that Bob's grudge had been with Maureen Jones-Hayes only and hadn't needed to torch any mini monster plants.

The local cops never found out who torched Bob's Begonias.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rule comes from Jenjoremy.  
> The two cases Dean can think of where nothing supernatural is involved are "The Benders"(Season1, Episode 15) and "Family Remains" (Season 4, Episode 11).
> 
> The aliases Sam and Dean use are names of two original members of Guns N' Roses, bassist Steven McKagan and drummer Steven Adler, respectively.
> 
> Thought you guys and girls might like that little bit of mystery I added in there. Wasn't intending it originally. It just happened. Hope you liked it.


	21. Chapter 21

Rule 21: Make sure you get a good night sleep and are well rested before hunting.

It was far too hot to sleep, John thought as he slumped over the tiny motel table, sweat dripping from his brow even though he only wore a white undershirt and boxer shorts.

Peering over his shoulder at his boys, both lying on their backs on the same bed, clad in nothing but their underwear, sleeping restlessly, John wished he could join them in the Land of Nod.

Raking a hand through his dripping hair, John leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

As soon as the sun came up, they would be off to hunt the chupacabra that had been terrorizing the small New Mexican town they were currently staying in.

The citizens of Castillo were so scared to leave their houses for fear of being attacked that the town first appeared deserted. Shop fronts were closed up, no cars on the road, no one gardening or mowing the sparse lawns; John nearly turned the Impala around thinking he had come to the wrong place.

But his sons, nine and thirteen, had been whining for a half-an-hour that they were hungry and thirsty and so their father had been forced to stop in at a Mexican restaurant called Casa de Maria, that still looked open.

Piling his kids into the restaurant, John's presence seemed to startle the middle-aged Hispanic woman lounging at one of the seats near the front.

"Are you open?" the hunter asked and the woman nodded.

"Sí," woman smiled uncertainly, her dark brown eyes uncertain.

"Sit anywhere," the woman called from over her shoulder before shouting at someone hidden in the kitchen, "¡Emilio! ¡Vamos!"

John led his sons to the same table the woman had been sitting at, because it was closest to the door and something told him he might need to make a quick escape, and sat down across from the boys.

"Where is everyone, Dad?" Dean asked, pulling a napkin from the metal dispenser on the table and wiping a smudge of dirt from his brother's face.

"Dean!" the younger boy exclaimed and shoved his hands away, irritable with hunger.

The sound of rapid footsteps approaching alerted the Winchesters to the woman's approach. She had fixed her hair so that it was now in a tight, black bun at the back of her head, and had donned a stained, white apron over her long navy skirt and crimson blouse.

"Here, here," she handed the family three greasy menus and a basket of homemade tortilla chips with a dish of salsa in the center.

"Thanks," John muttered and opened his menu, glancing at the options.

"Can I get the chorizo tacos, Dad?" Dean asked, pronouncing the foreign word slowly, "And a margarita?"

John frowned, "You can get tacos but you are not having a margarita, Dean."

The thirteen-year old looked somewhat downcast but perked up when he saw the wide variety of Mexican sodas listed under 'Beverages'.

"Can I have a burrito?" the nine-year old asked, his face hidden behind his menu.

"Sure," John commented and picked up a tortilla chip, crunching away on it.

The waitress/hostess/owner of the restaurant returned with a notepad and pen.

"What can I get you?" she asked and wrote down the family's orders.

"Hey," John spoke again as she turned to leave the table, "Why is it so quiet in here? Is it always like this?"

The woman shook her head, her eyes wide, "Oh no, Señor, it is because of… el chupacabra."

"Chupacabra?" John asked; it seemed they had found the right town.

"Sí," the woman, whose name turned out to be Maria, answered quietly, almost whispering as though she feared the monster would spontaneously appear and attack her.

"El chupacabra… he comes at night to drink blood," Maria continued, "He started with strays… cats and… dogs…"

John nodded, encouraging the woman to continue, "But then he took… la niña… a little girl..."

The hunter's dark eyes narrowed, "How?"

"Her mother said she was playing in the small pool in their back yard and… she went inside to make lunch… she heard her girl cry and when she returned outside… the girl was gone and there was blood… sí, so much blood…"

Maria hesitated, her eyes wet, "She was my neighbour… little Alejandra played with my younger children."

"I'm sorry," John said stiffly. He glanced at his sons from the corner of his eye; both Sam and Dean were staring at the woman wide-eyed.

"I'll go get your food now," Maria ducked out and scurried off towards the kitchen.

Once the Winchesters had eaten their lunch, John had left his sons in the only motel in town before going to Maria's neighbour's house. It hadn't been hard to find, despite the children's toys out front, the house had a somber air of grief about it.

After questioning the girl's bereaved mother, John found out that Alejandra wasn't the only victim of the chupacabra.

A ten-year old boy named, Rico had been attacked by the monster but had survived. He was able to give John an actual description of the creature, which confirmed to the hunter that it was a chupacabra.

This wasn't the first 'Goat-sucker' John had hunted. He'd killed one in Texas and another in Florida a few years ago and was confident he knew how to deal with the beasts.

A silver bullet between the eyes would do the trick as long as John was able to get close enough. The chupacabra, though not solely nocturnal, would sometimes be brazen enough to attack at dawn and dusk. What was strange about the chupacabra of Castillo was that it had taken a little girl right out of her backyard in the middle of the day, and had tried to kill a boy walking home from school around three in the afternoon.

Maybe it was just desperate, John thought, wiping a hand over his sweaty face; there isn't much livestock out here to begin with.

W

"Why can't I come?" Sam whined as John and Dean dressed early the next morning, preparing to hunt down the beast.

"You're too little," Dean commented, smiling slightly.

"Am not!" Sam exclaimed, sweat beading on his forehead.

"Sam," John interrupted, "This is too dangerous for you."

The nine-year old glanced at his bare feet, "I'm never going to go with you."

John sighed, "You are, just… not yet. You're still too young. I don't want anything to happen to you."

Sam looked up, his expression defiant; "Dean was hunting with you when he was my age!"

John, unwilling to try and explain his rationale to a nine-year old, put a hand on his elder son's shoulder.

"We shouldn't be long," he told Sam, "You stay inside. I mean it."

Guiding Dean to the door, John heard Sam's footfalls as he padded across the carpeted floor towards them, "Be careful!"

"If you're good," Dean called over his shoulder as he stepped over the threshold, "I'll bring you back a chupacabra head!"

W

"Where is this thing, Dad?" Dean asked as John drove the Impala through the silent streets of Castillo.

"During the day, chupacabras normally hide out in their burrows," John commented, "Their claws are as good for slicing through flesh as they are for digging."

Dean gulped loudly. Even though this was his father's third Chupacabra hunt, this was his first.

Parking the Chevy at the edge of town, John exited the vehicle and peered out into the desert.

"How are we supposed to find it, Dad?" Dean asked, standing on the other side of the car.

"They smell," John told him.

"Smell?" Dean asked, curious, gripping the gun his father had given him all the more tightly.

John nodded, sniffing the air, "They smell strongly of ammonia… like piss."

Dean lifted his nose and sniffed the air as well.

SPN

Sam watched as his Dad pulled the car out of the motel parking lot and started down the street.

Sighing, the boy folded his arms over his thin chest and turned away from the window.

He didn't really want to hunt. But he hated being left behind. He hated waiting to find out if his Dad and Dean were going to come back. It wasn't fair.

Staring around the sparse motel room, the boy felt tears in his eyes.

He didn't want to wait around for his brother and father.

Going to his Dad's duffle bag still sitting on the end of his bed, Sam search through the dirty laundry inside until he found what he wanted: a pistol.

The weapon was cold and heavy in the boy's hand but it felt good, right somehow, like it was supposed to be there.

Carefully pulling the magazine out- the way he'd seen his brother and father do a thousand times- Sam checked to make sure the gun was loaded before taking the safety off.

Shoving the weapon into the waistband of his jeans, the boy opened the front door of the motel room and stepped out into the sweltering heat.

SPN

"Keep your eyes on the ground," John instructed his eldest son, "Look for any holes in the sand, or scratch marks, blood or scales."

"Scales?" Dean asked, looking up at his Dad.

John nodded, "Chupacabras have scales, like a lizard."

"Okay," Dean commented and returned his gaze to the hard-packed earth.

SPN

If I were a chupacabra where would I be? Sam wondered, as he stood on the sidewalk outside of his motel room. He stared out across the street at the closed-up shops and decided that the monster wouldn't be strolling down Main Street.

Recalling that there was only the desert wasteland behind the motel, Sam decided that was as good as any place to start looking for the chupacabra and he walked to the end of the row of motel rooms and around the corner to the back of the buildings. The rooms only had front doors and no rear ones so that the desert pressed right up against the back of the motel. The paint on the sides of the building had weathered away with the pounding winds that carried billions of grains of sand, small cacti and succulents of increasingly exotic shapes were the only signs of life visible.

SPN

"Dean," John whispered and reached out to put a hand on the back of his son's neck.

The boy stopped obediently and peered over his shoulder at his father.

John pointed to their right, where a seven-foot tall Saguaro cactus cast its shadow over a hole dug into the sandy ground at its base. As the wind blew in their direction, the bracing scent of ammonia came with it, making their eyes water.

Dean pulled his gun out and took the safety off. John put a finger to his lips and stepped cautiously towards the den.

Kneeling, the elder hunter extended a hand and to his son's surprise, reached into the hole.

Before Dean could react, a high-pitched screech filled the air as his father dragged the enraged chupacabra from its den. The thirteen-year old stared at the creature as John held its tail tightly.

Only around four feet tall, it had large grey-green scales, yellow eyes the size of saucers and spines running from the base of its neck all the way down to nearly the end of its tail. It had short arms like a Tyrannosaurus Rex but long, kangaroo-like legs. Both its hands, oddly humanoid with four fingers and a thumb, and its toes ended in sharp claws. The monster's mouth was a beak with teeth like needles, perfect for piercing the flesh of its victims so it could drink their blood.

John's free hand gripped the back of the chupacabra's head, struggling to keep the creature still.

"Shoot it, Dean," he ground out, "Right between the eyes."

For a moment the boy hesitated. This wasn't his first hunt, of course, not the first monster he'd killed but he was so shocked at how easily his father had captured the chupacabra that it felt like a dream.

Raising his gun, Dean aimed the weapon carefully, not wanting to shoot his father by accident.

Keeping both eyes open and on the target- a large scale between the monster's eyes- Dean took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. The gun went off with a dull whump because of the silencer and the chupacabra's head exploded.

Green blood and pink brains sprayed John but the hunter didn't seem to mind much, the ammonia smell now stronger than ever as John dropped the creature's limp body into the hole at the base of the cactus before caving it in with his boots.

"How did you know to grab it," Dean asked his Dad as they both walked back to the car, the older hunter wiping gore from his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

"They always hide in their dens head first," John explained, "Their backs have spines so they use those as a defense against anything that might want to attack them."

Dean nodded, mentally filing this tip away for the day when he could hunt on his own.

"Cool," he commented, "Sammy will be happy we didn't take long."

John smiled. Something was troubling him though; he was wondering why a chupacabra would attack in the middle of the day when they almost exclusively took pray in the early hours of the morning or those right before nightfall. He felt as though he was missing something, some important piece of information but his sleep-deprived brain refused to offer it up.

Shrugging his concern off, the father turned on the Impala's engine, looking forward to a quick shower before leaving town.

SPN

Sam wasn't sure what to look for so he scanned the area for anything unusual.

Stepping further into the desert, he used one hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun and in doing so did not see the four small figures approaching him.

SPN

Now that the adrenaline rush of the hunt was over, John was really starting to feel the lack of sleep.

Stifling a yawn, he pulled into the parking lot of the motel.

"Dean, I want you and your brother to pack the car while I'm in the bathroom," John told his eldest, "Make sure you don't leave anything behind."

Dean nodded, "Right."

They exited the car and approached the door, John ready with his key. The hunter stopped though, noticing that the door was ajar.

"I thought I'd locked it when we left," he muttered, trying to remember if he had locked it.

"Sam knows to lock the door," Dean added.

"Sam?" John pushed the door open and peered into the motel room to find it empty.

"Sam!" he repeated, his voice sharp.

"Where is he?" Dean asked, peering underneath his father's arm.

"Goddamn it," John growled, "I told him to stay inside."

A sudden high-pitched scream, quickly cut off, sounded in the quiet air and the father's blood froze.

"SAM!" he ran out into the parking lot, searching for the source of the terrible sound, his elder son hot on his heels.

"Sammy!" Dean cried, "Where are you?"

"Shit," John turned in a circle but he did not see his youngest son.

"SAM!" he called again, praying for a response.

A muffled whump sound drew the hunter's attention and he started off in the direction, towards the end of the row of motel rooms.

"Sam! Sammy! I'm coming!" John shouted, his heart hammering in his chest and all thoughts of a shower- and his sleepless night- behind him.

"Sammy! Sammy!" Dean called, faster than his father and turning the corner of the building before screaming, "DAD!"

John rushed onto the scene that made his heart nearly stop. His little boy was lying in the dust, three miniature chupacabras- only two feet tall- standing on top of his prone form while pieces of what must have been a fourth lay scattered about.

The hunter cocked his gun and heard his son doing the same. Before Dean could shoot, however, John put a hand out, "You could hit your brother."

The three baby monsters looked up at the sound of John's voice so close and hissed.

The hunter raised his gun, taking careful aim and fired, not hitting any of the chupacabras but the ground just beside them.

The trio of fiends leaped into the air and away from their victim, shrieking in fear and anger. John pulled the trigger again and one of the three exploded in a shower of blood and guts.

Realizing they were in danger, the two remaining chupacabras turned tail and started hopping away as fast as they could, only to be picked off by Dean's careful aiming.

"Sam!" John fell to his knees in front of his youngest son and turned the boy over.

There were bite marks on his neck but they didn't appear to be very deep, the blood that had leaked out was already drying.

The boy's eyes were closed but fluttered open as John gathered his son into his arms.

"D-Daddy?"

"I'm here," John murmured.

The child's hazel eyes opened wider and he groaned in pain, one hand going to his throat.

"What the hell were you doing out here?" the hunter asked and Sam's gaze lowered.

"I… I was just trying to be a hunter… like you and Dean," Tears slipped down the boy's cheeks as he spoke.

John sighed, "What did I tell you about staying inside?"

"I'm sorry," his son whimpered.

"Let's just get out of here," John told him, "Grab that gun, Dean."

The thirteen-year old bent down and picked up his brother's fallen weapon, following his father and brother inside their motel room.

W

All three Winchesters were quiet as they left the town of Castillo, New Mexico. Sam sitting in the back with bandages on his neck and his face burning with shame, Dean speechless from the fact that his brother would deliberately disobey their father, and John mulling over his thoughts.

As he'd applied the gauze to his son's throat, he had realized why the chupacabra was attacking during the middle of the day. It had been a mother hunting with her babies. The young chupacabras grew fast and as such, needed to eat more often than the adults, forcing their mother to hunt when she normally would not.

Keeping that to himself, John stifled a yawn and promised that he would get some sleep at the next motel they stopped at, for he could not afford his thoughts to be muddled by insomnia, especially when his sons' lives were on the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This rule was submitted by both elliereynolds777 and Jenjoremy.  
> Please leave a suggestion for a 'rule' if you have one!  
> Leave Kudos or a Comment!


	22. Chapter 22

Rule 22: Never leave the windows open even if you put down salt lines.

"Are you sure this will be enough, Dean?" Sam asked as he and his older brother poured salt across the threshold of the motel room's door and window frames.

The older sibling nodded, peering through the one-inch space between the open window and its bottom frame at their father lying passed out across his bed. The boys had pulled the curtains down so no one would know there Dad was sleeping the sleep of the extremely intoxicated.

"Sam, there are no real ghosts out here tonight," the thirteen-year old assured him.

It had been his nine-year old brother who had insisted on putting down the lines of salt to keep their father safe while they explored the city of Santa Fe in the throes of Día de los Muertos.

Dean had wanted to go out. The days leading up to November second were always hardest on their father, who would rapidly become depressed and drink himself into a stupor when the anniversary of his wife's death came around. But Dean also felt the sting that remembering that fateful, horrible night in late 1983 caused.

Still very much a child however, he had been enticed by the prospect of the city's festivities, mostly so that he wouldn't have to sit in a smelly motel room while his father snored away like a lumberjack and his brother pestered him with questions about their Mom.

Dean hated it when Sam asked him about Mom. It wasn't that he didn't want his brother to know about her, but it was hard to talk about the woman who had been so violently taken from them, especially at this time of the year.

Sam set his saltshaker down and put his hand to his throat, the marks from the baby chupacabras that had attacked him in Castillo still visible.

"Hurry up, Sam," Dean barked but then his tone softened, "There's going to be a big parade downtown and I heard some kids say something about candy."

Wiping sweat from his forehead- it was as hot at night here in Santa Fe as it had been in Castillo, the reason they had cracked open the motel room's windows- Sam took hold of his brother's offered hand.

The nine-year old trotted along obediently after his brother. He was actually kind of excited; he had never been to a parade and one for honouring the dead was right up their alley.

SPN

John woke suddenly in the quiet motel room. Staring up at the water-stained ceiling, it took him a minute to orientate himself; remember where he was and why his head was aching.

Sitting up slowly, the hunter ran his tongue over his mouth and cringed at the foul taste lingering in his mouth. Pushing away from the bed, John intended to go to the bathroom and brush his teeth when he noticed that the motel room was quiet… too quiet.

"Dean?" he spoke, his voice raspy, "Sam?"

The room was not big, with two twin-sized beds; a cheap television perched atop a rickety stand and bathroom with hardly enough room for the hunter to easily move around in, it was clear that his sons were not there.

Frowning, wondering where his children could be, John became aware of the distant sound of music coming from downtown Santa Fe.

"Damn it, Dean," John muttered and stumbled into the bathroom, gripping the edge of the chipped porcelain sink with white knuckles.

Grabbing his toothbrush from where he had left it that morning, sitting in a flimsy plastic cup the motel provided, along with his sons' brushes, John glanced around for the toothpaste.

Now that he was standing, he knew he had had too much to drink. His head was starting to pound and his eyes felt like they were throbbing in their sockets.

Slopping the blue paste onto his toothbrush, John shoved it into his mouth and began washing the bad taste from his mouth.

"Jjjoooohhhnnnn."

The hunter froze; blue foam dribbled down his chin and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

"Jooohhhnnn."

The hunter tilted his head slightly, trying to catch the sound better. He turned off the water he'd left running and spat toothpaste into the sink.

"John."

Mary. The voice calling his name was unmistakably that of his late wife.

And it was coming closer…

SPN

"This is pretty cool, right?" Dean asked as he munched away on a sugar-coated churro, his brother silent beside him, munching away at his own treat with much less enthusiasm.

"I guess," Sam muttered.

"Huh? What's up?" Dean stopped and put a hand coated in oil and sugar on his sibling's shoulder.

The younger boy couldn't tell his brother that the crush of people standing on the sidewalks around them, cheering and dancing to the Latin music was making him anxious, or that the performers dressed as skeletons were scaring him.

"Maybe we should go back to the motel," Sam suggested, "You know, just in case Dad wakes up."

Dean frowned, "When are we ever going to get to do this again, Sammy? You know Dad would never let us go to something like this… hell; he won't even let us go to a Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. Besides, Dad will probably be asleep until morning. He's not going to wake up. We'll be back before he even realizes we were gone."

"Oh… okay," Sam muttered, wishing he was braver and had really spoken what was on his mind.

"Now shut up and eat your churros," Dean commented.

SPN

"Mary," John turned to peer out of the open bathroom door, wiping toothpaste foam from his mouth with his shirtsleeve.

"Mary, is that really you?"

"John."

Her voice called, sounding as though it was just outside.

Tears sprang into John's eyes and his heart ached.

"Mary," he murmured, "Come here."

"John…. Let me in…"

The hunter nodded, wanting nothing more than to see his beautiful bride once again, hold her in his arms even one last time. Hurrying across the motel room he flung open the door, pulling it inward and leaving the salt line his sons had lain undisturbed.

"Mary!"

There was no one there.

John frowned, confused, and called out his wife's name once again.

"Mary! Where are you?"

"John… Let me in… Let me in…"

Her voice again, so close, so close… but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Come in! Come in!" John encouraged, his heart beating furiously in his chest.

"The salt… I can't… the salt…"

"What? Salt?" John muttered and glanced down and spied the white crystalline line across the sidewalk in front of the door.

Stretching out a foot, John smudged the line with the toe of his boot.

"All of it… All of it…" Mary's voice encouraged.

John scattered the grains of salt even further, fanning them across the cement.

He looked up when an icy wind blew into the motel room and he turned his head to see the salt his sons had laid along the windowsills flung onto the stained carpet, useless.

Mary's voice laughed and John whipped his head back to the doorway.

His wife stood before him, dressed as she had been upon her death, her lithe form clothed in the silky white nightgown that he had given her for Christmas the year before. Her blonde tresses curled lightly across her shoulders and her green eyes- the same green of Dean's eyes- sparkled. She smiled faintly, one side of her mouth turned up just slightly.

"John," she spoke and her voice sounded more present, as though she was not speaking to him from across the veil but was actually, physically with him.

"M-Mary," the hunter choked out and held his arms out to embrace his wife.

The apparition stepped forward obediently and raised her arms to enfold them across John's neck, laying her head against his broad chest.

John felt tears course down his cheeks but he didn't care. His wife felt so real, so alive in his arms that he could almost believe that that awful night nine years ago.

SPN

Sam bent at the waist as partially digested churros and soda spewed from his mouth, Dean rubbing his back comfortingly while still munching away at his own snack.

Straightening, the nine-year old wiped his mouth with his sleeve, his eyes damp.

"Can we go, Dean?" he begged, "I don't feel good."

Peering up at his older sibling and feeling as though he might cry, Sam hoped his brother would take him back to the motel room.

The thirteen-year old stared at the revelers dancing, shouting and cheering around them and sighed.

"Okay Sammy," he murmured and took his brother's hand.

SPN

Not speaking, not wanting to ruin the moment, John moved backwards, bringing his wife into the motel room with him.

"John," Mary murmured, almost purring the name.

"Mary," he said, tightening his grip on his wife, as though she might vanish if he released her.

The woman lifted her head from his chest and stared into his dark eyes as though mesmerized, "Hold me John, now."

"I am, babe," he crooned, "I am."

"Love me," Mary whispered, her eyes locked on John's, "Love me."

"I do… oh Mary… I never stopped," the hunter assured her, fresh tears falling from his eyes.

"Kiss me," she demanded, her voice not the soft coo it had been a moment ago, but gaining a harder, authoritative edge.

John bent his head down to plant a kiss on the spot between his wife's eyebrows, something he used to do when she had been alive to make her laugh.

"Kiss me," Mary repeated, the peck she had just received not having its desired effect.

SPN

Sam was crying now. He couldn't stop throwing up. His mouth tasted of bile, his throat and nose burning. His stomach ached.

"We're almost there, Sammy," Dean reassured him, wishing he could do more for his brother.

SPN

Mary placed both hands on either side of John's face, not lightly, and demanded that he kiss her.

SPN

A trail of liquid dribbled from Sam's mouth and down his chin, his eyes glazed. Dean gripped his brother's wrist tightly, really becoming frightened now. He hoped they'd be able to wake their Dad up when they reached the motel room; he'd know how to help Sammy.

SPN

"Kiss me," Mary said again, "Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me."

SPN

Sam collapsed onto his knees, heaving onto the sidewalk. Dean, terrified his brother was dying, scooped the smaller boy into his arms and started running, the motel they were staying at within sight.

"Dad! Dad!" Dean shouted, his heart hammering in his chest.

SPN

"M-Mary," John stammered, his wife's words repeating like a broken record.

Mary was gripping her husband's head tightly, uncomfortably so, and he struggled to pull away from her grasp.

"Stop it!" he cried.

"Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me," Mary repeated, looking less and less like his beloved wife and more like an insane woman.

"Let me go!" John snapped and tried to shove his wife away but she dug her nails into the sides of his face and refused to let go.

"KISS ME, KISS ME, KISS ME!"

SPN

"Dad! Dad! Sammy's dying! DAD!" Dean ran up the sidewalk that led to their motel room, not even realizing that the door was standing wide open and nearly dropped his brother at the sight that greeted him.

SPN

John watched in horror as his wife's face melted away to reveal a skull with fangs instead of human teeth.

Still chanting, "Kiss me," the spirit turned at the sound of Dean's calls and its eyeless sockets focused on the boys.

SPN

"Dean! Look out!" John cried as he pulled his gun from the waistband of his jeans and shot the apparition once in the back.

The thirteen-year old dove to the floor the second his father's warning had been sounded, dropping heavily to the carpeted floor with his brother's weight in his arms.

The bullet John had loaded into his gun had been filled with salt- coming to Santa Fe on November second what else would it be- and the ghost of Mary Winchester vanished with an unearthly shriek.

"Salt!" John snapped, "Get the salt!"

Dean, still confused about what had just happened and concerned for his brother didn't move so John stepped outside and grabbed the saltshaker his youngest son had left beside the doorframe.

Working quickly, John poured a thick line of salt across the door and closed all he windows before doing the same to them.

Breathing heavily, he set the empty shaker on top of the TV and stared at his sons.

"Sammy's really sick," Dean whimpered, sitting up, touching the stinging rug burns on his elbows and knees, "I think he's dying."

John stepped up to his youngest child and lifted him, bringing the boy to the closest bed and laying him down.

Putting a palm on his son's brow, the father didn't feel any sign of fever.

"He just kept puking," Dean explained, creeping over to the bed.

"How much junk did he eat?" John asked, his voice sounding more tired than angry.

Dean didn't reply. There was no need.

"He'll be okay," John replied, "Get a Gatorade from my bag."

The thirteen-year old obeyed his father and held up the bottle of blue sports drink. Gingerly, John sat down on the edge of the bed beside his youngest, carefully lifting the boy's head with one hand as he expertly twisted the lid from the bottle with the other.

"Mmm," Sam hummed, "D'ddy."

"Drink this," John murmured, "It'll make you feel better."

Bringing the bottle to Sam's lips, the father carefully tipped it so a small amount of the Gatorade flowed into the boy's mouth. Laying the child's head back down, John set the bottle aside, sighing and ran a shaking hand through his black hair.

"D-Dad?" Dean's voice startled him slightly and he turned to see his eldest son peering at him with wide eyes.

"Yeah?"

"What… what was that thing when we came in… I thought it looked like-"

"A confused, angry spirit," John interrupted.

Dean didn't say anything for a moment but then whispered, "Because of what day it is?"

John nodded, not elaborating further.

"You look after your brother," he told Dean as he stood, "Make sure he drinks that. I'm going to get some rest."

The father stepped to the second bed and laid down, hoping that when he woke again, the night would be nothing more than a bad dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This rule comes from CarverEdlundtheLast.  
> Please leave Kudos or an idea for a 'rule' if you have one!


	23. Chapter 23

Rule 23: Don't use a rifle to prop up a broken table

Dean pulled the Impala into its parking spot in front of the motel room and grabbed the greasy bag of takeout from the passenger's seat.

Slamming the door shut, Dean stepped up onto the sidewalk that ran the length of the motel, separating the rooms from the parking lot.

Readying his key, the hunter wasn't concerned when he noticed the room's door was ajar- Sam was waiting for him to bring dinner back and probably heard the Chevy's engine rumbling as he approached- and pushed it open, his words of greeting dying on his lips before he had a chance to speak.

The room looked like a tornado had gone through it.

The television lay on its front feet from where it had originally sat atop a heavy chest of drawers; the sheets from both beds lay tangled in a heap on top of one of the beds, the mattress from the bed furthest from the door hung of the box spring at an angle. The table that had sat in a corner of the room lay on its side, one of its legs missing.

"Sam?" The bags of food fell from Dean's hands as he hastily scanned the room for signs of his brother.

"Here," a voice at the far side of the room ground out, slightly muffled.

Stepping over clothing from his and his brother's duffle bags, Dean found Sam lying on his stomach beside his bed.

The younger man lifted his head at his sibling's approach and the frown that had appeared on his face the second he saw the state of the motel room deepened.

Sam's lower lip was split, a trail of blood leaking down his chin; the left side of his face was black and blue while his right cheek had a large gash across it. His right eye was already swollen shut.

"Jesus Christ, Sammy," Dean reached down and grabbed his brother's upper arm, helping him up.

The younger man gasped in pain and his hand went to his abdomen. Dean's eyes widened at the red circle growing on the right side of his brother's t-shirt.

"Shit," the older sibling swore and reached out with his free hand, lifting the shirt to reveal a ragged wound just beside his brother's navel.

"What the hell happened?" Dean demanded. The wound didn't appear to be too deep and although it was bleeding profusely, didn't seem life threatening.

"Two… two kids…" Sam ground out, spitting blood from his mouth, "After you left to… get food…"

Dean helped his brother to his feet and had him sit on the edge of his bed after shoving the mattress back into place. As his brother spoke, Dean checked his sibling for broken bones, internal bleeding or head injuries.

"Kids?" Dean asked, "What do you mean?"

"They were young," Sam told him, "A guy and a girl."

Dean nodded, an indication for his brother to continue.

"Heard the girl first," Sam explained, "Banging on the door as if… as if she was in trouble…"

"I opened it and when I did," Sam paused, spitting blood again and Dean told himself to not worry about that, it was probably just a result of his sibling being punched in the face, "The boy forced his way in… I wasn't… wasn't prepared."

"Wasn't your fault," Dean assured him, checking the wound on his brother's abdomen and finding minute pieces of wood sticking from the broken skin, like splinters.

"Ah!" Sam cried as Dean carefully pulled on of the larger splinters out and looked questioningly at him.

"The table leg," Sam told him, grinding his teeth.

"What did they want?" Dean asked, standing and stepping into the bathroom to grab the first aid kit they kept there.

"Were they looking for money?"

"They were hunters."

Dean poked his head out of the bathroom, surprise clear on his face.

"What?"

"They said they heard about me starting the Apocalypse from some of the other hunters," Sam explained, his tone quiet.

"So they thought they'd let you have it?" Dean asked, bringing the kit out and sitting beside his brother.

"They were trying to kill me," Sam muttered, "But they got scared when they heard the car."

Dean swallowed, his eyes moist, but turned his head so Sam wouldn't see.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he simply told his brother.

Neither Winchester spoke again as Dean washed out the wound on his brother's abdomen and applied a patch of gauze or wiped the gash on his cheek, sticking it together with butterfly bandages, or handing him a cold beer from the small bar fridge in the room to lay against his swollen eye.

Once his ministrations were finished, Dean began cleaning up the motel room. Sam wanted to help but the older brother insisted he remain where he was, with a casual, "I got this, Sammy."

The younger brother watched through his good eye as his sibling crammed their clothes back into the duffels, picked the TV up and put it back onto the dresser on which it had originally sat, pushing broken glass into a corner of the room with his boot, before reaching under the bed for the broken table leg and coming out with both it and a pistol.

The jagged end of the table leg was coated with drying blood, and Dean grimaced, before tossing it aside- he'd never be able to fix the table anyway- and taking a special interest in the gun. It was a .38 Smith and Wesson Special. The safety had been taken off and the magazine was full, a bullet already in the chamber.

"I thought you said they were trying to kill you," Dean commented, "Not beat you senseless with a table leg."

Sam smiled slightly, "I said I was unprepared for them… I didn't say I couldn't defend myself."

Dean grinned back, emptied the bullets from the magazine and chamber, putting both the ammunition and gun into his duffel bag, along with his own weapons.

"Feel up to eating?" he asked his sibling. Sam shrugged, "I'll try."

Dean nodded, satisfied, and picked up the takeout bags.

"Hope you like Texas-style barbeque."

W

Sucking the last bits of meat from one of the ribs from the rack he had bought, Dean nodded towards the broken table.

"I think that's a lost cause, Sammy."

Glancing around the room to take in the table, with a jutting stump sticking out from where its fourth leg should be, and the television that was now missing its glass screen, Sam commented, "I doubt they'll give us our security deposit back."

Dean smiled. It was rare that Sam was in a joking mood these days.

"Hold on," he stood, "I think I have something that we can use to fix it until we leave."

Stepping out of the motel room, Dean went to the Impala's truck and, after glancing around to make sure no one was watching, opened her secret compartment and pulled out a hunting rifle.

Entering the room again, Sam saw what he had and immediately started to protest.

"Dean, I don't think that's-"

But Dean ignored him, righted the table and wedged the rifle underneath it, the weapon's barrel against the carpeted floor.

"See," Dean smiled, and stepped back to show that the table remained upright without assistance, "Good as new."

Sam looked skeptical but said nothing more, simply picking up the last piece of cornbread and stuffing it into his mouth

W

Later that evening, Sam dozed fitfully in bed while Dean sat at the table, laptop open as he searched for ways in which they could stop Lucifer dead in his tracks.

He wasn't having much luck.

Sighing, the hunter sat back, jiggling one foot with restless energy.

Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, Dean decided he should join Sam and get some rest. They should leave early in the morning, in case those kids decided to come back and finish what they had started.

Dean would have liked to find them and teach them that they don't mess with his little brother but he knew Sam wouldn't approve. Even after Roy and Walt had blown them away with shotguns, Sam hadn't wanted to pursue them, telling Dean that maybe it was best if they thought they were dead.

Dean hated the thought of anyone getting away with hurting his little brother but he knew Sam had a point. They had bigger problems to deal with right no-

BANG!

Dean fell backwards in his chair with a terrified cry, even as his sibling jumped straight out of his slumber with a strangled yelp.

"DEAN!" Sam shouted, "What's happening?"

The elder Winchester, his heart pounding in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins, lay on his back for a long moment, trying to gather his bearings.

Slowly, his gaze was drawn to the table where he'd been sitting, to see a large hole blown through its top and a smaller hole in the ceiling directly above.

"It's okay, Sammy," he assured his brother, "I think my foot touched the trigger."

Then, realizing just what must have happened- his jiggling foot nudging the rifle's trigger and firing the gun- he began to laugh.

Sam though, didn't look amused.

"Someone's bound to have heard that," he told Dean, his severe look diminished somewhat by his bruised, swollen face.

Getting to his feet, Dean pulled the gun from underneath the table, easing the piece of furniture carefully onto its side as he did so.

"You didn't have the safety on?" Sam asked and Dean, still chuckling, shook his head.

Sam sighed and grabbed his duffle bag from the floor.

"C'mon, let's get out of here."

Dean didn't argue but picked up his own duffel and headed out to the Impala.

Opening the truck he put both bags and the gun inside while Sam climbed into the passenger's seat.

Not even bothering to return the room key to the office, Dean climbed into the Impala and started the engine.

"Dean," Sam turned to his brother, his left eye wide but the right squinting at him almost comically, "Don't ever do that again."

The older sibling didn't even have to ask what his brother was talking about. He nodded as he pulled out of the parking lot, the people staying in the rooms closest to theirs already opening their doors to see what was going on.

"Sure, Sammy," Dean muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rule comes from CarverEdlundtheLast.  
> Please leave kudos or a 'rule' if you can think of one!


	24. Chapter 24

Rule 24: "But it's the Cinnamon Challenge" is not an acceptable excuse to not help your choking brother

"C'mon Sam," Dean egged his brother on, "All you have to do is swallow one spoonful of cinnamon. It's easy."

The younger boy eyed his brother suspiciously.

"How would you know?"

Dean smiled smugly, lying, "Tyrone dared me to do it last Friday at school."

Sam hesitated. Tyrone Daniels was Dean's friend at the new school they were currently attending. Tyrone had arrived at the school as a new student the same day as the Winchesters and had quickly become friends with the older sibling. Tyrone was the only black kid in the school as well as a new student and he and Dean had stuck together out of some unspoken solidarity.

"Okay, I guess," Sam relinquished, "But you have to do it after me."

Dean shook his head, "No way, Squirt, I told you I already did it at school. Besides, I did the 'saltine challenge' last week."

Sam smiled at the memory of his brother shoving six soda crackers into him mouth and chewing furiously, trying to eat them all become his sixty-second timeframe was over. The most surprising part about the challenge was that Dean actually managed to swallow all of the crackers in a minute.

Sam stared at the innocuous looking jar of ground cinnamon- borrowed from Tyrone's house- and the plastic spoon they had kept from an old take-out meal.

Turning his gaze to Tyrone, Sam addressed his brother's friend.

"Dean really did the 'cinnamon challenge'?"

The older boy nodded, smiling, his teeth very white against his dark skin.

"We did it durning lunch recess," he told the younger boy, "You should have seen your brother!"

The boys were sitting cross-legged in a circle on the motel bed furthest from the door. John was nowhere to be found- actually he was in the next town over- just a twenty minute drive from this one but smaller, with no elementary school- and wouldn't return for at least a day or two.

"Are you a chicken, Sammy?" Dean wheedled, a sly smile on his face, "Baaawwwk, baaaawk, baaaawwk!"

The younger boy shook his head, "No!"

Grabbing the jar of cinnamon, Sam twisted off the lid and shoved the spoon inside.

Dean leaned forward eagerly. His little brother could be so gullible sometimes. Of course he hadn't actually done the challenge himself. He knew Sam wouldn't do it if his brother hadn't done it before.

He caught Tyrone's eye and grinned. The other boy smiled but not as widely as Dean.

Both boys watched as the younger opened his mouth wide and pushed the brimming spoonful of cinnamon inside.

Closing his mouth and pulling out the spoon, Sam eyed his brother and Tyrone defiantly, the dry, powdery cinnamon already coating the roof of his mouth and tongue.

Not wanting to lose the challenge- he'd never hear the end of it if he did- Sam tried to swallow the cinnamon.

The powdery spice had soaked up all the saliva in his mouth and made swallowing impossible. Instead of swallowing the cinnamon, he inhaled it and his lungs and throat tightened.

Dean laughed out loud when a cloud of cinnamon exploded from his brother's mouth as the boy coughed and spluttered, gasping for air.

"I knew you couldn't do it!" Dean crowed triumphantly and held a hand out to his friend for a high-five.

Tyrone wasn't laughing, or smiling, or even looking at Dean. His dark brown eyes were fixed on Sam, who was hunched over, his face red, tears running down his face, mouth open wide as he struggled to breathe.

"Dean," the boy said, "I think something's wrong."

Dean, who had been too excited about the prospect of seeing Sam embarrass himself doing the 'cinnamon challenge' hadn't noticed that his brother did not look like he was having fun.

"He's fine," Dean assured the other boy, not wanting to humiliate himself in front of his new friend, "He just needs a minute."

But the wheezing sound coming from his brother didn't stop. Sam lifted his streaming eyes to his brother and although he couldn't speak they conveyed a helpless message Dean should have understood right away: "Help me."

"He's choking!" Tyrone snapped at Dean, "Your bro's choking!"

The elder Winchester looked from Tyrone to Sam and back again.

"But… But it's the Cinnamon Challenge," he stammered.

Before Dean could react, because he seemed stuck on the fact that a dumb, kid's prank could become dangerous so fast, Tyrone grabbed Sam from behind and began performing the Heimlich maneuver he had learned just that past summer during swimming class.

"Get me some water!" the boy snapped and suddenly Dean moved.

Scrambling off the bed, he hurried to the motel room's bar fridge and grabbed a bottle of water from inside, twisting off the cap as he rushed back to where his friend and brother were.

Dry puffs of cinnamon were exploding from Sam's open mouth like cigarette smoke but he continued to wheeze and gasp, his throat closed against the foreign particles coating it.

Suddenly, violently, with one more thrust from Tyrone, vomit streamed from Sam's mouth and nose, tinged dark brown as it washed away the cinnamon dust from his throat.

Then the younger boy was shaking and crying, coughing but breathing.

Tyrone grabbed the bottle of water from Dean and offered it to Sam.

"Drink this, little dude," he murmured, "It'll help."

Sam accepted the bottled water and drank quickly, groaning in pain as the cold water rushed down his irritated throat and into his sore stomach.

"Sammy," Dean said but the younger boy turned away from him.

Dean, hurt by his brother ignoring him, pressed on.

"Sammy, I'm sorry," he continued, "I shouldn't have made you do that… I made a mistake."

Still, Sam refused to face him, sipping carefully on the water.

Tyrone got up from the bed and motioned for Sam to do the same. Carefully, the older boy folded the blanket so that the cinnamon and vomit was contained and dropped it by the front door.

"I… uh… I should go home," Tyrone said, "See you at school."

Dean nodded but did not turn his head to his friend as Tyrone let himself out.

He couldn't believe that he hadn't seen it before, that he hadn't noticed his brother was in trouble and that it had taken someone else, someone who barely knew them, to realize that what was meant to be a fun practical joke was no longer fun.

Dean felt like an idiot. He should have been more careful. The worst part was that he had never even done the 'cinnamon challenge' before; he was lying when he told Sam that he and Tyrone had done it at school. He had seen other kids doing it, coughing and laughing as cinnamon puffed out of their mouths in brown clouds. He had thought it would be just like that; Sam would cough puffs of cinnamon and they'd all have a good laugh about how silly the whole thing was.

"Sam," Dean reached out to his brother but Sam moved away.

"Don't touch me," he said, his tone emotionless, his voice scratchy.

Tears pricked the corners of Dean's eyes. He hated it when Sam was mad at him.

"It was an accident," he insisted, "I didn't know that would happen."

Sam refused to look at him. Sighing, Dean went to the motel room's front door, grabbed the soiled blanket and took it out to the side of the building where the dumpsters were. Tossing the entire thing into the smelly, green dumpster, Dean sighed.

He didn't think he could bear it if Sam stayed mad at him.

Walking slowly back to the motel room, he closed the door, wondering what he was going to say to his brother when he was greeted by Sam holding the plastic spoon and the jar of cinnamon out to him.

"Your turn," the younger boy told him. His face was still damp but now it wasn't quite so red, the angry colour quickly draining from his skin.

Dean, with a chagrinned expression, took the items from his brother's hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rule comes from CarverEdlundtheLast.  
> Please leave Kudos if you're enjoying these stories. Please consider leaving a 'rule' and I'll write it for you!


	25. Chapter 25

Rule 25: Always make sure you have the right bullets to kill the monster

"You're sure regular bullets will kill it?" Sam asked, following his brother along the deserted road, fields of tall corn plants towering over the boys on either side.

"I'm sure, Sammy," Dean assured his brother, one hand gripping a pistol, while the other held a flashlight.

"But what if we need silver? Like for a shapeshifter or a werewolf?" the younger boy asked, "I wish Dad had answered his phone."

Dean turned on his brother, "I know what I'm doing, Sammy. Okay? It's a Black Dog. They're not like werewolves or shifters… they don't change shape."

The younger boy, startled by his sibling's aggression, did not respond for a moment. Then he swallowed thickly and nodded.

"Okay, Dean."

Despite his brother's confidence, Sam wished they'd been able to get ahold of their Dad so they could know for certain what killed a Black Dog. Dean sometimes thought he knew everything because he'd known about monsters for a long time. But Dean didn't know everything.

Sam bit his tongue and didn't argue with his brother any more. He knew he'd get nowhere questioning his sibling anyway.

Still, he gripped his own gun and flashlight just a little tighter.

W

"The last victim was here," Dean had paused at a crossroads surrounded on all sides by bristling fields of corn. The only light came from the boys' flashlights; the moon was dark tonight and refused to glow.

Sam peered nervously at the dirt road and wished he were back at their motel room, safely tucked into bed.

"What do we do now?" he asked his brother, who seemed to have everything planned out in his head.

"We wait," Dean told him, chest puffed out with self-importance, "And when we see the monster, we kill it."

So many questions arose in the younger boy's mind: How long would they have to wait? What would they do if the monster had moved on? What if the Black Dog found them first?

But he simply nodded and stepped into the tall corn stalks at the side of the road, concealing himself from anyone who might drive by, and readied himself for what he was sure to be a long night.

W

A faint rustling from behind Sam caused him to turn quickly where he stood. Shining his flashlight in the direction, the boy saw nothing and told himself it could have just been some kind of nocturnal animal- a raccoon or a fox- and not a monster.

He wasn't sure how long they had been waiting, Dean saw sitting beside him, head bowed, fast asleep and snoring lightly.

When the rustling stopped, Sam calmed down and continued his watch.

SPN

Dean bit his lip when the corn plants behind him began shaking furiously. Grip tightening on his gun, the boy squinted into the green, fibrous stalks to see if there was any threat.

His brother was lying on the ground, curled on his side, sleeping fitfully.

The corn continued to shiver and Dean jumped back, shocked, when a large black snout shoved out from between the plants and snapped at his face.

Stumbling back, the boy fumbled with his gun and fired off a shot that went wild.

The sound woke his brother and Sam sat up, an expression of confusion morphing into one of terror in seconds.

The Black Dog was much bigger than anticipated. The size of a small black bear, it stepped towards the boys with paws like dinner plates.

"SAM!" Dean shouted and fired a second shot at the monster, "GET UP!"

The younger boy staggered to his feet, but he was too slow to react and the Black Dog lunged at him, hit him and knocking him back onto the ground.

"SAM!" Dean cried as the monster leaned its head down to take a bite of his brother.

Firing a third shot, Dean's heart skipped a beat when the bullet found its target, lodging itself into the side of the Black Dog's chest.

The beast lifted its muzzle and yelped in pain but did not collapse, as it should have. Instead, it turned its yellow eyes on Dean.

"Shit," the boy whispered and fired point blank at the Black Dog's face.

One sulfur yellow eye exploded in a gush of aqueous fluid and the monster screamed in pain, shaking its head.

Dean stumbled backwards as the Black Dog, blinded in one eye but still very much a threat, lumbered towards him, salivating.

"SAM!" Dean shouted, "SHOOT IT!"

From behind the Black Dog, Dean spied his brother's body lying prone and unmoving on the ground.

With one final shot, Dean hit the monster in the chest right before the Black Dog rammed him and he landed heavily on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs.

Closing his eyes, waiting for the killing bite, Dean felt his bladder release and warm wetness leak into his jeans and into the dusty ground beneath.

Three shots rang out in quick succession and bite to his jugular never came. Slowly, the boy opened his eyes and saw his father standing over him with his own pistol and a murderous look in his eye.

"Dad," Dean croaked.

John reached down and grabbed his elder son's arm, pulling him up.

"Are you hurt?" he asked the boy brusquely.

Dean shook his head.

John turned away from him and went to Sam. Kneeling down, he gathered the younger child into his arms.

"Is he-" Dean began, his heart in his throat.

"Unconscious," his father replied, "Get in the car."

Dean nodded, "Yes sir."

The boy followed his father out of the cornfield and to the dirt road, where the Impala was idling on the shoulder.

Dean climbed into the backseat and John laid his brother beside him. Dean saw small cuts and scrapes on his brother's face and hands in the glow of the Chevy's interior light and felt a large goose egg on the back of his head.

John slammed the door as he climbed into the driver's seat and turned to face his sons.

"What in God's name were you thinking, Dean?" John asked his son, not yelling, but only just.

Dean looked down, feeling like an idiot.

"I was… I just…" he stammered.

"What, Dean?" John demanded.

"I thought I could kill a Black Dog without you," Dean admitted, the idea sounding stupid even as he said it.

"And you thought it was okay to bring your brother with you?" John asked and Dean nodded.

"What have I told you?" his father asked but the boy remained silent, feeling tears pricking at his eyes.

"What? Dean, what have I told you to do whenever I'm not here?"

"Don't leave the motel room unless its an emergency," Dean whispered, trying hard not to cry.

"And?" John pressed.

"And look after Sammy."

"Both of which you didn't do tonight," John told him.

"I just wanted to be like you," Dean tried to placate his father.

"I would never disobey my parents," John told him, "And I'd never put someone else's life in danger."

"But you go hunting with other people all the time," Dean argued, unable to stop himself.

"They know what they're doing, Dean! You and Sam don't!"

The boy flinched as though he'd been struck.

"You nearly got you and your brother killed!"

John turned around and remained silent for a long moment. As the silence grew, he turned the key in the ignition and the engine started.

"And you didn't even have the right bullets," he told his son, his voice low, "Silver bullets kill Black Dogs."

Dean nodded, closing his eyes and telling himself never to do something so stupid again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave Kudos if you're enjoying these little stories.  
> If you can think of one, please feel free to suggest a 'rule' and I'll be sure to add it to the list!


	26. Chapter 26

Rule 26: Always remember to blow out the candles after a spell

"Got you," John grinned grimly and stood up from the couch, quickly surveying the objects sitting on the coffee table before him to ensure he wouldn't make a mistake.

No, the spell was foolproof. Even someone like him could perform it perfectly.

The hunter had been searching the town of Fairfield, Pennsylvania for a week and a half for a witch with no luck until Bobby Singer had called with the directions for a locator spell. Using a town map, two white candles and a deconstructed hex bag taken from the latest victim's apartment, the hunter had been able to narrow down the location of the witch to the mayor's office.

Standing, John drew his leather jacket around him, and walked around the coffee table, knocking it with his shin and causing the candles to wobble dangerously.

Unknown to the hunter, whose one-track-mind was now only focused on finding and killing the witch, the candles fell onto the table, scorching the map and rolling onto the carpeted floor just as he left the tiny two-bedroom house he was renting.

Upstairs, also unaware of the flames quickly burning through the carpet, Sam and Dean Winchester slept soundly, side-by-side.

In the living room carpet turned black, the fibers melting, sending up noxious smoke as the fire grew. The couch became the next victim, flames hungrily eating through its upholstery and stuffing beneath.

The wooden coffee table didn't stand a chance as fire crawled up its legs, weakening them until it crashed onto the carpet with a dry groan.

SPN

Sam opened his eyes, startled by an odd thudding sound.

Was Dad home? The boy listened for the sound of footfalls but there were none. Maybe the sound had come from outside.

Eyes half-closed, the boy was ready to fall back to sleep, his brother's warm breath in his face, but something in the back of his head told him something wasn't right.

"Dean," Sam whispered to his sibling.

The old boy scrunched his face and mumbled something unintelligible before falling back asleep.

"Dean," Sam tried again, this time reaching out and pushing on his brother's chest, "Wake up."

Green eyes peered irritated at the younger boy through the darkness.

"What?" Dean hissed.

"I heard a noise," Sam whispered to him.

"So? It was probably Dad," Dean scolded.

"It wasn't," Sam insisted, "I didn't hear him come upstairs."

"It was probably a dream then," Dean rolled over so his back was facing his brother, "Go back to sleep."

"Dean, can't we go check, please?" Sam shook his brother's shoulder.

The older boy glared back at his sibling, "Fine. If it'll shut you up."

Sam's lip trembled but he didn't cry. Instead he climbed out of bed and crept cautiously towards the door.

Peering over his shoulder, the boy saw his sibling was slow to follow.

"Come on, Dean," he whispered, "Please."

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, the older boy got out of bed.

"If this is just because you had a nightmare I'm going to pound you," Dean growled.

Sam turned away from his brother and opened the bedroom door. For a moment, all appeared normal. Then, the boy noticed an orange glow coming up the staircase across from their room.

Looking over his brother's shoulder, Dean spoke, "Maybe Dad is home."

Sam listened carefully; he still felt as though something wasn't quite right.

"Come on," he stepped out of the room and in the direction of the staircase.

As soon as he did so he caught the scent of something burning and wondered if his father had left some food in the oven or microwave too long.

"Dad?" Sam called and stopped at the top of the stairs, leaning over the bannister to peer into the living room below.

The boy's heart leaped as he caught sight of the flames flickering and crackling below, coming closer to the stairs.

"Dean," Sam whispered, his voice cracking.

"What?" Dean asked and reached out to grab his brother's shoulder.

"Fire," the younger boy answered.

"What are you talking about?"

"F-fire," Sam lifted a hand and pointed down the staircase.

Dean, again looking over his shorter sibling's shoulder, saw what his brother did. And froze.

"We have to get out of here," Sam turned to face Dean and saw his brother's green eyes were wide and unblinking; the orange flames below reflected in them.

"Dean!" Sam snapped and grabbed his brother's hand, "Come on! We have to get out!"

Dean didn't speak or move. He just stared at the flames making their way towards them.

"Come on! Snap out of it!" Sam cried, glancing behind him at the fire creeping eagerly towards them up the staircase.

With one hand still gripping his brother's like a vice, Sam raised his free hand and curled it into a fist. Knowing his brother would probably be furious about what he was about to do once they were safe, Sam closed his eyes and let his hand fly, connecting with Dean's chin.

The older boy's head snapped back and he groaned, blinking owlishly.

"This way!" Sam cried and led his brother back towards the bedroom, ignoring the string of curses following him.

Back in the bedroom, Sam closed the door and tore the blankets off the bed, stuffing them against the bottom of the door to keep the flames and smoke out.

Dean, rubbing his chin, eyed his brother.

"We have to open the windows," Sam told him.

"They don't open," Dean growled, "Remember?"

The past few days had been unbearably hot and the house did not have any air conditioners. The only relief would be to open a window or two and let the breeze in. Unfortunately, the windows in the bedrooms had been painted shut.

Sam peered around the room and grabbed a lamp sitting on the nightstand, pulling its cord from the wall.

"Hurry," he told Dean as he handed the lamp to his brother.

Sam tried to listen for the sound of crackling flames but could hear nothing. Maybe the fire was still climbing the stairs.

Dean hefted the lamp in one hand and then heaved it at the window. It broke through with a musical tinkling of glass. Grabbing the top sheet from the bed, Dean wrapped it around his arm and broke off the shards of glass still clinging to the sill.

"Go faster!" Sam snapped. Reaching out one hand, he could feel growing warmth against the other side of the door.

"Shit," Dean swore and motioned for his brother to come forward.

"You first," he told Sam.

The boy peered out the window at the ground. Now it seemed like a very long way to fall.

"Remember what Dad taught you," Dean encouraged.

Sam nodded.

"Feet first, relax, bent knees when landing, roll."

"Out you go," Dean said and Sam gripped the sides of the window frame, his brother pushing him up as he did so.

I can do this, Sam thought as he stared at the grass beneath him; I have to do this.

Then he was falling. Arms flailing, legs kicking, heart pounding, it only took seconds before Sam impacted the ground, John's rules for safely jumping out of a window completely forgotten.

Sam landed on his feet, barely, pain shooting up his legs and into his pelvis. The boy gasped and staggered, collapsing on the ground in agony.

Moments later, the grass shook with impact as Dean landed and rolled, a little winded but otherwise no worse for wear.

"We did it, Sammy!" he heard Dean cry even as tears streamed from his own eyes.

"Sammy? Sammy! Are you okay?"

"My…leg…" the younger boy ground out, one trembling hand against his right knee.

"Shit," Dean swore, "Okay, just relax. I can hear sirens coming."

Sam nodded, trying to steady his breathing as pain crackled up his injured leg.

Dean got down onto his knees beside his brother and brushed Sam's sweaty hair back from his forehead.

"You saved us, Sammy," he murmured, "You found the fire."

"Huh… not really," the younger boy commented through clenched teeth.

"I would have just gone back to sleep," Dean told him, "Who knows what would have happened to us if I'd done that."

Sam closed his eyes, concentrating on his brother's voice.

The next few hours went by in a blur of pain and fluorescent lights and intravenous analgesics so that Sam did not have a strong memory of its events.

At one point John appeared at Sam's bedside before they boy was taken into surgery to repair his broken kneecap. A comminuted fracture broke the patella into five separate pieces that needed to be held together with pins to stabilize the bone while it healed.

SPN

"Mr. Winchester?" John looked up from where he sat beside Sam's bed. The boy and his brother sharing the younger Winchester's hospital dinner, his injured leg laying above the covers, bruised and scraped, a bandage protecting the healing kneecap.

A police officer stood in the doorway.

"Do you have a minute? This won't take long.

The father peered at his sons for a moment before standing and following the cop into the hallway, closing the door slightly.

"Yes?" he asked, "What's this about, Officer?"

"We received the report back from the Fire Inspector," the officer informed him, "Turns out the fire started in the living room of the house you were renting, and it appears that an unattended candle was what caused it in the first place."

John frowned for a moment. He didn't leave any cand-

Oh God, he thought and his eyes widened. Had he remembered to blow out the candles when he'd used the spell to find the witch? He couldn't remember.

"Mr. Winchester? Are you all right?" the police officer asked.

Clearing his throat, John nodded, "Yeah… yes."

"Now the homeowner isn't going to press charges," the cop assured him, "It appears as though the fire was started by accident rather than malicious intent."

John nodded, agreeing with him.

"But I'd like to remind you to be careful next time you decide to have candles in your home," the cop warned, "This very easily could have ended in tragedy."

Thinking of his sons- and Sam's quick thinking that saved them both- John nodded, "I couldn't agree more. Thank you officer."

The cop touched the brim of his hat and turned away, making his way down the hallway.

John let out a shaking breath and went back into Sam's room.

"What was that about?" Dean asked, slurping bright green Jell-O from a plastic cup- Sam's dessert that he didn't want- as his brother picked at what looked like grey potato salad.

"Nothing," John shook his head.

"Is everything okay?" Sam asked, his eyes slightly glazed from the painkillers he was being given.

"Yeah, everything's just fine," John forced himself to smile, telling himself that he would never ever allow fire to harm another member of his family again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave Kudos if you're enjoying these 'rules'  
> Leave a 'rule' as a Comment if you have an idea!  
> Thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to suggest a rule for the Winchesters if you have one!


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